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lovinghrrry · 3 years

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AHHHH

“What is there to hear out, Sir?” She murmured, almost robotically as she began to re-dress the bed “I am a Chambermaid. What he did was not a crime.”

Harry watches her pensively, the heat of the cup against his knuckles while he holds it by the handle, “You’re an odd little duck,” he uttered, “You’re right, you are just a Chambermaid, and he’s the next King. You ought to let those damned feelings go, but look at you,” he motioned toward her, referencing the tension in her shoulders, the way her brows pinched deeper, the noticeable upset that warps through her face, so plainly easy to read, “Even me reminding you cuts you to pieces. It’s pathetic.”

Y/N is quiet for a while -- Harry thinks she may be attempting the silent treatment on him (he wondered if she’d also picked up that this was his least favorite tactic, and it drove him mad when people didn’t respond to him), but eventually speaks again. “You talk a lot, Your Highness.”

A chuckle leaves him, low and deep, “Do I talk too much, or do I just say things you don’t like?”

Harry's still kind of a prick and Y/N doesn't understand him at all

part 1

(21k+ words)

ii.

It was too hot.

Harry was too hot -- too warm; the world around him was foggy. . .or was it smoky? And Harry was drenched in beads of sweat, his body sucked dry of water. There was an elephant-like rain cloud weighing heavy in his chest, filling his lungs, drowning him -- where was he? Why was it so hot? Where was Edgar? Edgar had been there, hadn’t he? His brother was mean to him, but he’d rather have him than be alone here, with dancing flames of vibrant reds and oranges filling his vision nearly everywhere he looked. Harry hadn’t feared fire before, because fire was good and kept you warm in the cold months, but this was too much. He was too warm.

Was it going to be like this forever? Would he never get out?

Help me!

No sound came from his voice.

Nobody was around him.

He was alone.

Prince Harry!

Who was that?

Wait. . .who was that?

Harry wakes up with a gasp, filling his lungs with air like he was starving for it. His head swam as it tried desperately to reorient him to reality, away from the damned nightmare that tortures his subconscious most nights. He was sweating like a hog, his hair clung to the damp skin of his forehead and neck, but when he looked over toward the fireplace he saw that it was not burning very brightly. When he looks toward the window, he sees that the door is cracked open and letting in the chilled night air.

Both the fire and the window are telling signs that Y/N had been in his room at some point. Most nights he tasks her with the duty of his bath and bedding (he’s found that she does both best, so it wasn’t so much for tormenting her now as it was for Harry’s own enjoyment of her work), but not every night does he order her to cater to his fire. If she’s tending to it, then he usually requests her hour by hour, and she just stays at his side to avoid having to run back and forth from the servant’s quarters. He’s found, however, that even on nights he doesn’t request her, she still comes around to do it. It was like she had tailored it to the state he was in after his dreams.

For this he is thankful, but he doesn’t dwell on it. He presses a hand to his head, an ache thrums just beneath the surface of his temple as it usually does when the nightmares are more suffocating than usual. How pitiful to still have such dreams after so many years -- he’d been so young then. One would think he’d have gotten over it by now, at least a little bit. . .at least enough that it wasn’t still haunting him.

Harry finds himself leaving his bed before he even really thinks it through, and then there shortly after he leaves his room. In a sleep clouded daze, Harry is not entirely sure where he’s headed at first, until he found himself taking the familiar root to the servant’s quarters -- more specifically, what Harry had learned to be her bedroom. He’d never been in there before, he’s only ever caught her right outside of it, but when he’d teased and asked if it was her lover’s den she told him it was her room.

Would he just enter it? No -- Harry is a prick, but a person’s space is a person’s space, no matter how small and no matter the position Harry is in above her. So how would he get to her then? Whisper her name until she woke up? He wouldn’t want to wake the others if they were asleep. Servants didn’t have much time to rest and Harry did not want to be more of a cause for that than he already was.

Maybe he should just go back to his room. What was he doing here anyway? Standing outside the large 10-meter doors that separated their quarters from the rest of the castle, his hand gripping the brass handle. Would he tell her that he had a nightmare and came to seek her out like a child? No -- his ego wouldn’t allow that. So what was the point of --

“Prince Harry?” Her voice comes from behind him, startling him out of his bones, he jumps hard, “Are you okay? What is wrong?”

He turned to face her, trying to soothe the worry in his brow, “Just taking a stroll through the caste and thought I might come to annoy you.” The lie leaves him quickly, but the look in Y/N’s eyes says she believes him very little.

“At 4 AM?” She inquired, smoothing down the areas where her smock wrinkled, “I was just in your room tending to the fire and you were resting.”

“Why are you awake so early then?” He flipped it onto her, “Your duties do not start until six in the morning, Chambermaid. You aren’t doing anything naughty with your mouth tonight, are you?”

Y/N’s gaze darts away from him, as it always does when he alludes to what they had done together. It had only been a little over a week ago, so he presumes the act of it was still fresh in her mind. If he was honest, it was still certainly fresh in his own brain -- when his eyes fluttered closed, he found it infrequent that the image of her with her mouth on his cock didn’t overcome him. And Harry could be honest again in saying that he’d touched his cock and cum over and over to the thought of filling her mouth. He got particularly hard when he remembered how eager she was to do well -- how she sounded like all she wanted was to be good at this. Thriving off the praise that Harry very seldom gave her. . .the whole night had gone much better than he’d expected.

Sure, she may have a shite taste if she thinks his brother is all that, but at the very least she’s got a useful little mouth.

“I promised the seamstress I would spool her threads today, Sir, so that she could get some extra rest,” she answered him, patting absently at the wrinkles on her smock, “And I always come to check on your fire a few times as it is nearing sunrise, just to make sure it lasted through the night.”

Harry ignores the little twitch in his heart that makes him feel -- of all the servants Harry had met. . .of all the people that Harry had met. . .Y/N seems to like him least, but is still overly concerned with his comfort. There had always been little things that he had noticed, from how she conducted his baths, to how she tucked in his bedding (not too tightly toward the end of the bed, so his legs and feet wouldn’t feel suffocated), and of course his fires as well. But even after that night, when they were slightly more intimate together, he found that she was actively going out of her way to make his life easier. She kept his water and wine glasses full if she were tending to one of the meals, she shined his shoes one morning before he had even realized she had them, and she had somehow found a way to warm one of his blankets just before bringing it to his bed at night.

When he questioned her of this newfound interest in doing things for him, she shrugged her shoulders, “You did me a favor. Should I not return it?”

Y/N treated Harry this way without love in her heart; merely appreciative of him teaching her a proper blowie, like him getting an orgasm from it wasn’t already a treat. It would make sense why Edgar is so eager to keep her at his side. Why he would give her a false sense of hope -- who wouldn’t if they were being catered to like this?

“That makes very little sense, Chambermaid; the seamstress’s hours are nowhere near the length of yours, and just yesterday I witnessed her surfeited on wine in the tea room with a man of the court.” Her face skewers some like she had not known that is how she spent her night, and for some reason that sends a pit of irritation straight down to his belly -- a seed planted and growing rapidly. Her friend, that Edith girl, had not been lying about how the others used Y/N’s kindness against her. “You make poor decisions,” he tells her, brows knitted, “If something is not your work then do not do it. Are you dense? Or do you want to look like a fool?”

Whatever anger she may have felt toward the seamstress is quickly shifted back toward him, “I’m rather busy, Your Highness,” she steered the conversation, “So if there is nothing that you needed, I’ll be going.”

“Tea,” Harry began his order -- he would not let her make such an imbecilic move; she spends too much time around him now to still be acting so aggressively altruistic in such a horribly stupid way, and that would make him look bad. Who would allow their chambermaid to wear themselves to the bit? “Bring tea to my room and some medicinal herbs for my aching head. On your way there, wake that seamstress and tell her she’ll have to perform her own duties this morning.”

Y/N gives an exasperated sigh, “Do you want everyone to dislike me, Prince Harry? Because that is what will happen if I keep breaking my promises because you suddenly need me.”

“Then so be it.” He replied flippantly as he pivoted on his heel, back in the direction he’d come, “Don’t forget my honey and sugar, and keep that filthy mind out of the gutter while you make it.”

He heard her groan quietly, and even catches her murmur, “You’re the filthy one,” under her breath, but lets it slide. At the very least, he impeded whatever this seamstress was trying to pull, even if it really was just an effort to get a little more sleep. What did that do to Y/N’s ability and time to rest? He hardly thinks she sleeps as is, and if she’s not resting, she’s not at her best, and if she’s not at her best, her work suffers, and in turn, Harry suffers too. Not only Harry, but the others of the court as well, and they are nowhere near as forgiving as him when it came to the servants.

As Harry made his way back to his room, he wondered if Edgar was feeling Y/N’s absence yet. He had told her to hold out for two weeks at the very least, to make him squirm and question if she was upset with him. Harry really had not thought she would go for it, as love-struck as she was by the piece of shit, but she seemed all too willing and happy to oblige. It was then Harry had found that deep in her somewhere she could be legitimately spiteful without being directly antagonized. . .it was a good reminder that despite her resilience and sickeningly kind-hearted spirit, she was very human. Human enough to want to punish Edgar for sliding his tongue against Prince Dowdenl’s, even if he didn’t know she had feelings for him.

Harry believed that Edgar very well knew how much Y/N cared for him which he used to his advantage like the disingenuous prick he is. To be doted on by Y/N was unlike being doted on by any other servants, Harry had seen and felt firsthand how well she does. If Edgar wanted to keep her close, Harry wouldn’t put it past him to entertain her little crush, letting it swell and bloom until all she could think, and dream, and care about was him.

Thinking about it makes his head ache worse.

Harry stares out of his window, watching the chilled glass fog around his mouth from his breath. He was still quite tired, but he is unsure if sleep will find him easily tonight. Typically once he wakes from one of his nightmares then he is awake for the day no matter the hour his eyes open, even if it was 3 AM -- one time he’d woke at 1 AM and stayed up throughout the entire night. It had been so awful, and he fell asleep at the table during lunch, with his head down and his mum scolding him as she cradled his cheek and had a servant prepare his chambers for a nap (she babies him from time to time if he caught her in a good mood -- Harry knew he was not her favorite, but he was still her baby).

The early morning air looked as cold as it felt against his face. Harry is so distracted by the way the trees sway in the breeze, he doesn’t realize that the door has creaked open until Y/N clears her throat. He turned to face her, seeing that she not only had one hand on a cup of tea, the other on the medicine, and the laundry basket that she nudged into the room with her foot. “What are those for?” He questioned as Y/N closed the door with her heel, walking around the sheets.

“You had a bad dream,” she said knowingly, “You sweat with your nightmares. I thought new bedding would be more comfortable and help you sleep.”

Harry hummed low, “You’re quite perceptive, Chambermaid,” he isn’t sure if this is a compliment or not, “What makes you think that I need to sleep anymore?”

“Your cheeks are flushed and there are dark circles beneath your eyes,” she noted, “It is not perception, Sir, I am only paying attention.”

She may be the only one who does pay attention, Harry thinks to himself, but he wipes the thought away, “Very well, you may do up the bed.” Y/N tips her head in a nod though the look in her eyes suggests she already knew he would agree to it. She hands him the medicine first, which Harry takes back like a shot, face scrunching up at the pungent taste, but she switches out the small cup he took it from and hands him the warm tea. Frome one sip he knew that it would be one of the better brews he’s tasted -- she seems to be good at almost everything, from baths, to bed making, to gardening, to tea. He would not tell her this. . .he still liked to watch her huff and pout at him, “I see I’ll need to teach you the intricacies of how I like my tea.”

Her brows furrowed, “I did it just how you usually like it.”

“Hm, I’m not so sure,” he taunted, and Y/N stared at him for a moment, irritation glowering beneath the surface but she took a short breath and started on the bed, stripped the sheets off, “How is avoiding Edgar? Has he come to grovel at your feet yet?”

She shook her head, “He has tried a few times to catch me, but I have evaded each attempt. Though I am sure he’ll soon realize what I’m doing.”

“Your lover is an idiot, Sweetheart, so I don’t believe he’ll realize much of anything,” Harry takes another sip, appreciating the warmth that soothes down his throat. He crosses his arms and leans his hip against his dresser, the robe he wore was very loosely tied around the waist -- very similar to the night she’d had her mouth on him -- but neither brought it up. Harry barely realizes it himself, except he feels the draft from the window slither up his thighs, “I’d suggest ignoring him forever, but I know that is unlikely to happen. Will you hear him out?”

“What is there to hear out, Sir?” She murmured, almost robotically as she began to re-dress the bed “I am a Chambermaid. What he did was not a crime.”

A chuckle leaves him, low and deep, “Do I talk too much, or do I just say things you don’t like?”

“Both.” She stretches the corners, but he watches her mindfully keep them loose toward the bottom of the mattress.

Y/N finishes up the rest quite quickly, tugging the top of the blankets down so he could crawl easily beneath the sheets after he finished his tea. As he snuggles beneath them, she changes how much the window is open before going to shuffle the wood around with the fire iron, feeding the flames an extra log. Harry shivered as he warmed beneath the covers while he watched her. The smock she wore was worn to such tatters. . .he made a mental note to have another one made for her. Maybe by the same bloody seamstress who couldn’t be arsed to do her own work.

Harry knows that if he lets her leave the room, she'll spool the bloody thread no matter how he groused at her for it, so before she can leave, he clears his throat, “Stay by my side until your proper duties begin, Chambermaid.”

She looked at him, brows dipped, “Prince Harry --”

“What if I have another nightmare? Do you want me to be all by myself when it happens?” Harry can tell that it is taking everything in her not to huff and stomp toward the chair, but she does allow her face to twist up with vexation as it always does when he pushes her, “You think I am dense, do you not? You were going to run straight to that seamstress’s room and spool her threads, quiet as a mouse trying not to wake her up.” He flips around in bed so that he can face her, his cheek resting against his palm and the blankets up to his shoulders, “You do too much for too many, and you’ll wear yourself thin. Focus on impressing the people that matter, like me for example. My mother too, that’s a good start. . .my father if he isn’t being a self-righteous prick.”

Y/N pulled her legs up onto the chair, tucking them beneath her and resting her side against the back of the chair, sighing, “I am aware that I do too much,” she finally admitted to him -- but how she says the words, Harry can tell that this is the first time she has ever admitted it aloud, “I’m unsure why I do it, but I feel very guilty when I tell others no.”

Harry hums, “Was it how you were raised?”

She shrugged her shoulders, “I’m unsure,” her head thunks against the back of the chair, but her body is still turned so she’s facing him, “Sometimes it feels as if it were embedded in me from birth.”

Harry watches her eyes flutter closed like she was being soothed by the comfort of the chair, the warmth of the fire, and the cool breeze that slithers through the sliver in the window. A smile curls at his mouth and he waits for a little while until he’s certain that she was moments from sleep -- he could tell by the way the muscles in her face relax. He supposes the only time he’ll ever get confirmation that she is sleeping is if she is doing so beside his bed.

“Rest for a little while, Chambermaid,” he murmured, “I will wake you when it is necessary.”

. . .

Harry knew Edgar would eventually catch up with her, no matter how long he tried to prolong it.

Thursday, after a particularly fulfilling lunch that made Harry feel quite heavy and tired, he saw Y/N disappear behind the swinging door from the dining hall that would eventually lead her to the library. It was just after noon, so if the schedule he had created for her daily duties is correct, instead of taking the break that she should once, she finished arranging her assigned rooms -- she would be taking on someone else’s work. Harry caught Edgar eying the door from the other end of the table, and it only took around three seconds for him to excuse himself from the table.

It took everything in Harry not to throw his plate at Edgar’s feet and watch him trip. He merely gritted his teeth, waited for the door to shut behind him, and then stood up shortly after, “I’m g’na go piss,” he muttered crudely, and listened to his father snort as he left the table, shouldering through the door. Harry kept his feet light as he followed suit down the hall, hearing hushed voices rushing through sentences like they knew someone might be coming soon. It grated his nerves more than he could really describe, and he knows it is simply for the fact he knew Edgar was about to win her back over; how easy it is, to turn a blind eye to red flags when you’re in love with someone. Even if that love is doomed to fail and lackluster on the other half’s part.

“--to apologize for what happened,” he catches the tail end, slowing to stop just around the corner where one hall meets the mouth of another, “That was. . .it was blatant uncouth behavior, that is not befitting of me at all, and it was not something for a lady to see.” Harry’s face twists in disgust -- what a phony prick.

Y/N cleared her throat -- he could imagine the face she was making; disgruntled and shy, tilting toward the ground, “Do not worry about such things, Your Highness,” she replied, “I am no lady. It was an accident is all.”

“I hardly think it was an accident,” he retorted, “It was Harry’s doing, was it not? He was the one who led you outside. He must have known that I had been out there,” Harry bites hard on his bottom lip to keep from snapping, breaking his cover by letting Edgar know that it had nothing to do with him; Edgar being a lecherous asshole was something Harry could have seen coming from a kilometer away, but he hadn’t been able to sense it -- he wasn’t a damn oracle, “You shouldn’t let him push you around Y/N, he’s a cruel man. He’s making you spend all this time with him to get to me.”

“Get to you how?” Y/N inquired, but when there was no response for more than ten seconds, she sighed heavily, “No matter -- Prince Harry was unaware that you and Princess Dowdenl were out there. I do not believe many things he says, but I do believe that he would have gloated if he walked me into it. But it doesn’t matter -- none of that matters.”

“It does matter if it upsets you,” Edgar presses, and Harry’s squints in disgust, pressing nearer to the wall, “It matters a great deal to me. You are one of my closest friends Y/N, I only wish for you to be safe and content. I worry about you.”

Damn him, Harry thinks to himself he’s a sweet talker for sure. It was clear what his intentions were saying that to her, and Harry would say that he had received his desired reaction when Y/N’s next response lacked the bite the ones previous to it did. “While I do appreciate it, please do not worry, Your Highness, you have much bigger things on your plate than the matters of a Chambermaid,” she tells him, her voice is soft though, not saddened, but fond of him and his concern for her, and he hates the disgust that dribbles in his belly because of it, “Prince Harry is. . .rougher with me verbally, but he has shown kindness in other ways.”

Harry is flooded with a feeling that he cannot quite make out, he just knows he had not felt it before. Even though it was slight, Harry could not think back to a time that someone exonerated him to his brother; whenever they bad-mouthed one another people would either give an ill at ease chuckle (when Harry was doing it) or would agree in a desperate attempt to gain favor (when Edgar was doing it). Nobody. . .not even his own family. . .had ever told Edgar his deduction regarding Harry was wrong.

He hates how absolutely chuffed he is by the fact. He knows that it was because the whole reason he’d started messing with her and implanting himself into her life was to get beneath Edgar’s skin, but part of him. . .part of him knows that there is something else just slightly different. Harry had grown to enjoy her company, even if just slightly -- he realizes in her absence that nobody truly spends as much time with him as she does. While it may not be her own doing, he was still pleased to hear that spending her hours with him was not something she detested. At least not enough to complain to his brother about it.

“You’ll tell me, won’t you? If he gets to be too much -- if he’s making you do things you don’t want to do.”

Y/N responded quickly, “I will tell you, yes, but he does not push me to do egregious things, Your Highness. I promise.”

“Good,” he does something -- Harry cannot hear or see what it is, but the prospects of what it could be sparks displeasure deep in his gut, “If you are able, I would love for you to join me for tea.”

“You are not taking it with Princess Dowendl, today?” She questions and Harry bit down on a grin -- the slight spite that filled the sentence did not go unnoticed by him, and unless Edgar is an idiot, Harry’s certain he must have heard it too.

Clearing his throat, Edgar denied it, “No, she -- she and her family left for home this morning.”

There is silence, so thick that Harry could slice through it with a sword and it would hold the consistency of butter, and then Y/N’s reply comes shortly after, “I am very busy, Prince Edgar, but I will try my best to make time. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must hurry.”

Y/N flees in the direction that she had been going in the first place, but there is no time for Harry to make off before Edgar is walking around the corner. With his left shoulder to the wall, Harry is leaning with his arms crossed around his chest and his legs crossed around the ankle. He was not ashamed of being caught, considering it was more embarrassing for Edgar -- who had more or less gotten rejected by a chambermaid -- than it was for him.

“I sense she has a bit of a jealous streak in her,” Harry let the corner of his mouth quirk in a smile, “Reckon you didn’t think she’d be this upset, did you?”

“I don’t know what it is you’re planning,” Edgar began, storming off in the direction that they’d come back toward the dining hall -- Harry fell into step beside him, “But leave Y/N alone. I will not ask again.”

Harry scoffed, “I don’t know if you heard, but I do not push her to do egregious things,” he retorted, “You’re cruel for what you do to her -- you should be the one to leave her alone, not me.”

Brows dipping, Edgar turned to face him, “For what I do to her? And what is it that I’m doing, Harry?”

“Oh, you know exactly what I mean, Your Majesty,” Harry stops just before they walk back through the doors of the dining hall, and he only keeps his voice even slightly quiet so that their parents will not hear what they’re bickering about -- though he would love to embarrass Edgar, this was a matter private between them. Y/N would not be discussed around the King and Queen, which was an unspoken agreement between the two that Harry planned to maintain, “If you use her loyalty to you at your advantage, then you’re an even bigger prick than I imagined. I don’t want you manipulating my friend.”

“Your friend?” He sneers, “She hasn’t mentioned anything to me about you two being friends. Last time she brought you up to me, you had just called her filthy in the garden and said you disliked her!”

Harry doesn’t bother hiding the grin that stretches his cheeks, “Feelings change, brother,” he stuck his finger out, poking Edgar in the chest and shoving him back just slightly, “Maybe you’d have heard it from her, but you’ve spent the last week stuffed in Princess Downdel’s bum.”

Edgar doesn’t reply -- his face curls into a deeper frown and he shoves his way through the door.

The whole interaction filled Harry with an unimaginable glee -- one he only remembers feeling as a child when he was flicking through the leather-bound journals describing flowers and plants all over the world. Why was it so fun to dig beneath his brother’s skin? To claw away at Edgar’s nerves until he ran out of things to grouse and gripe about; how funny it was to see the indignation simmer beneath his gaze at the mere idea of Y/N thinking of Harry as a friend. What would he do if he’d known she had his cock in her mouth?

Ah! This is much more fun than Harry had envisioned.

When Harry sees Y/N that night for his bath, he greets her at the door, a grin bright on his face, “Good evening, Chambermaid,” he practically throws the door open, ushering her inside, “Come in, come in!”

“You are particularly chipper tonight, Prince Harry,” she replied, a new jar of Lotus petals in her arms, along with his freshly washed-silk robe, “Are you about to do something cruel to me? The only time you’re this excited to see me is when you’ve come up with something mean to say.”

Harry juts his lip out in a deep pout, shaking his head, “You wound my spirit,” he swings the door closed behind her, “I get you a gift, and this is how you treat me? I should just call the seamstress in and have her unloop every thread.” Before Y/N could question what he was going on about, Harry strides across the room to the chair that sits close to his window -- the one Y/N often sat in when she spent her nights here. There he had laid a new smock, one he’d told the seamstress to make (the day after he had Y/N snooze in his room rather than spool her bloody threads for her) with Y/N’s measurements in mind. How she had gotten Y/N’s measurements, Harry didn’t question, he only told her that she better figure it out and have the clothing to him in a few days’ time lest she wants him angry.

The fabric he’d chosen was much softer than the fabric that she had been wearing before, but it still looked quite similar -- enough so that the others wouldn’t begin thinking she’d gained favor and was being treated better because of it. Harry was many things -- a bully, for starters -- but he did not like it when the person he was bullying got bullied by someone else. He was horribly possessive in all ways imaginable and he was finding that this extended to Y/N as well. This would explain how pissed off he got at the thought of someone fucking her, or why he was so irate when he found the seamstress was using Y/N’s kindness against her.

She was his to play around and mess with…nobody else’s.

He plucks it up from the chair, pivots on his heel, and finds that she is standing right behind him — she is so quiet on her feet it’s nearly unsettling, “Here you go, little mouse,” he presses it into her hands, “So you can stop embarrassing me in those tatters you call clothes. Wear this one when I am in your care -- if it suits you well, I will have the seamstress make more to replace your pitiful wardrobe.”

“Oh!” She took the clothing, carefully unfolding it, and her eyes go wide once she realizes what it is, “Prince Harry this — this is too much —“

He scoffs, “This is a singular smock. You thinking this is too much speaks to how depressing your life has been thus far.”

Y/N ignores him, pressing the fabric against her cheek and giving a breathless giggle, “It is so soft, Sir,” she murmured, and Harry feels an unfamiliar buzz fluttering through him — starting up near his heart, scooting through his shoulders, worming around his belly, down his thighs, tingling at his toes. It makes him feel light — like he’s floating, “Thank you very much! I am very grateful.”

Harry watches her closely, clearing his throat and sighing, “Yes, well, remember that I am the one who gifts things to you so lovingly and therefore am the better Prince. Did you have tea with him today?”

Her shoulders sank at the mention of him, her head nodding gently, “I did,” she scrunched her nose, “And it went well, but…well, Edith told me something afterward that sort of made me feel all weird about him again.” Y/N let her eyes trace over the new smock in her hands, comparing the look of it to the one she was wearing, “She overheard some women of the court speaking about how Princess Downdel does something in particular that he likes. I had never heard of it before.”

Harry, despite being irritated by the topic of his brother (though he was the one to bring him up in the first place), is intrigued by what the women of the court might have been saying. Harry hears whispers too about the depraved things Edgar has his bed-mates do, but everyone always shuts right up when Harry walks in like they would be scolded by him for their nattering. He has never understood why they think he cared what they spoke about -- whether it be about his brother, or himself -- they could be throwing their names through the dirt, and Harry would not think twice about it.

“What’s with this pause, is it for dramatic effect? Spit it out.”

Her brows furrow, “Not all of us are as crass as you Sir, a lady shouldn’t speak about such things so casually!”

“You’re hardly a lady, Chambermaid, not with what you can do with that little mouth there.”

With a huff, she looks off to the side, “She was the one on top,” she relents, clutching the smock to her chest, “Like she -- um. . .she did the work. I didn’t know you could do that?”

Harry stared at her blankly at first, letting the weight of her words fall into his lap before a small giggle tickled the back of his throat. A small giggle that mushrooms to a chuckle, and a chuckle that shifts to full-blown laughter. Y/N’s brows are furrowed as she’s staring at him, pouting her mouth with her arms crossing, “Why are you laughing at me?”

He places his hand to his chest, attempting to catch his breath, “You poor thing,” he taunted through breathless snickers, as he reaches out and strokes her cheek with his hand, thumbing over her bottom lip at first, then pinching it between his fingers and tugging it out, “You weren’t kidding when you said you had little experience. Would you like to try that?”

Harry releases her bottom lip so she can respond, “Is that -- you wouldn’t mind if we tried that?” She brushed stray pieces of hair away from the front of her face, “I thought -- I thought you might not want to touch me in that way.”

There is a small tug at Harry’s heart, another one that he is unfamiliar with and therefore chooses to ignore entirely, “I really can’t say that I care, Chambermaid,” he says instead, “A hole is a hole to me; this is for your own benefit.”

Her brows furrow slightly, but the gloom that had momentarily taken her face was replaced by a sudden determination. Y/N takes a slight step backward, “Okay, then I would like to try it tonight, please. I will go and --”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Harry stops her before she could continue, arms crossing over his chest, “And who says I want you on my cock tonight, hm? I am much too big for a virgin like you to take in one go -- think I would just split you right in half,” he tutted his tongue, watching as her shoulders slump down, “No, I think it is reasonable for me to first get an accurate feel of how tight you are and how well you could take my fingers before you get a treat like my cock, don’t you think?”

If he’s really honest, Harry doesn’t know exactly why he’s doing this. In any other situation, with anyone other person, he would be eager to get them undressed, get his cock out, and do as they (he) both pleased -- fuck them hard and deep to make their toes curl. It was not as if he wanted to get it over with, but he wanted to expedite the route to his pleasure.

But with Y/N, the desire to stretch out the process outweighed his desire to snuggle himself between her thighs; he thinks it would be far too easy on her if he fucked her right away. Harry wanted to prolong it -- excite her and humiliate her. . .make her beg him to fuck her silly. How delightful it would be to have her pleading for him to be inside of her without the driving force is what Edgar might like in the bedroom. He is well aware that he’d promised his help in guiding her through sexual matters as she’d asked of him, and time and time again he reiterates this is for her benefit -- but he certainly wasn’t just doing this out of the kindness of his heart either. He got something out of this as well.

Harry is pleased that he is the one who is the one to teach her. He knows Edgar would have taken much joy to be the one to do this if he desired her as she does him -- anyone would enjoy teaching someone just exactly how to satisfy them, nearly from scratch. Had she been open and honest with her feelings, and had Edgar taken advantage of that, he’d have a perfect, devoted little Chambermaid to use as a cock warmer on cold nights when his usual fucks are off doing god knows what. And maybe in the end he would still get that, but Harry would be contended by the knowledge that he was the one she asked to teach her. Not Edgar, but Harry -- and even if the situation was a little fucked, it was nice to be chosen over him for once in his damn life, even in such a task as this and even with the intended result in mind.

“Why would you need to stretch me with your fingers?” She inquired and the look she gives him suggests that she’s annoyed by this, which only makes Harry want to drag it out longer, “Don’t I just have to sit on top of you?”

Harry takes the smock from her hands, folding it back up loosely before setting it down where he’d had it previously, “I don’t know what fiendish brute took your virginity, but there should be some thought and consideration into how you get fucked. You need to learn that before you let anyone between your thighs, or you’ll get taken advantage of and screwed over.” He shook his head, “You have so much to learn. Pour me a glass of wine and get your shoes off.”

Y/N holds her tongue as she does what was instructed of her. There was a blueberry wine that he had brought in a few hours ago sitting on his dresser, so that is what she pours into his glass and brings over to him. She then toes her shoes off (flats, made of some material Harry could not pick out of a line-up, which is how he knows it is cheap), and watches him closely. . .expectantly, rather. Her eyes don’t leave him as he brings the glass of wine to his mouth, not as he tips it against his lips, and takes the sweet liquid against his tongue. Harry locks his eyes with hers and swallows before asking, “What is it? You want to ask something then ask it, I cannot read your mind.”

“Well, I just wondered. . .I wondered if you might let me try some? It helped soothe my nerves last time. I thought it could be beneficial to help soothe me this time, Sir.”

Harry pretends to think about it, humming lowly, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and chewing on it, bobbing his head from side-to-side, “I s’ppose you can try some,” he replied, “But you remember how you’re meant to take wine, don’t you?”

“From your mouth?”

A small grin pulls at his cheeks, “Mhm,” he felt proud in her response, and her compliance after he murmurs, “Open up a little for me.” She does so without hesitation as he tips more back into his mouth, holding in the well beneath his tongue before he fixes their lips together. Harry uses one hand to take her chin, guiding her to tip her head up just slightly before he fixes their mouths together. A little noise leaves her mouth when he pushes the liquid in, and it makes his cock twitch slightly -- he strokes his tongue against hers for a second before parting. She swallows the wine, face puckering slightly at the sweet taste, “Good?”

“I like this one a little better than the one from before,” she answered, “That one had been bitter.”

Harry hums lowly, taking another swig and swallowing it down, “Of course you would enjoy the sweeter one,” he tutted his tongue, “I expect no less from someone who has horrible taste in all things other than your little crush on me.”

“I do not have a crush on you,” she protests but Harry ignores her, setting the wine glass down on the table at his bedside.

“Get on the bed and pull the skirt of that smock up.”

Y/N is only slightly hesitant in doing so; she crawls into his bed so cautiously -- as if it were made of glass. She doesn’t go up to his pillows as he expected her to -- instead, she goes closer toward the middle, and tries to shuffle the skirt up and over her knees to rest high up on her thighs. Harry gave an exasperated groan, “Are you being dense on purpose?” He accused, “Obviously I meant to hike it up all the way, Chambermaid.”

“I don’t know about you, Your Highness, but I don’t just go around showing my bits to everyone, so this is very embarrassing!” She snapped back, and his heartbeat quick at the bite in her tone. He followed her into the bed, sitting on his knees before her, then resting his palms flat against her inner thighs.

“If you don’t want this, then you have to tell me,” he reminded her, “Otherwise I’m splitting open these legs and taking a look at this little cunt between them.”

Y/N’s face is still pulled into a deep pout but she’s resolute in her decisions; she pulls the fabric up higher on her thighs, and Harry’s brows rise considerably before he presses them open further, which shoves the dress up even more. He’s met with her bare cunt almost immediately, and he looks back up to her, finding that she’s looking to the side out of pure, unadulterated embarrassment, “What is this then? Did you know you were going to come in here begging for my cock?”

“I did not beg,” she objects, body jumping when his hands fell lower, “I just thought -- I hoped that you would help me like before, and I thought that this would be easier than taking the time to strip them off.”

“It takes all of three seconds to strip those off,” he murmured, tutting his tongue, “Filthy.”

Y/N opens her mouth to grumble something at him, but he flips the skirt the rest of the way up, leans forward, and spits onto her pussy, so whatever retort she had begun to create is replaced by a gasp. Harry finds that she’s got quite the pretty gash between her thighs; the sight of it makes his mouth water, truly, and Harry had not had this response to someone’s bits in a very long time. Of course, he couldn’t let her know that, so he swallows and sighs, “Well, look at this,” he murmured, sliding his hands closer to her, running the pad of his thumb over her clit and the mess of his saliva, watching as she twitches beneath his touch, “You’re so sensitive here.”

“Why —“ she began, her thighs trying to close around him as he rolled the little button, feeling it swell beneath his thumb, “What exactly is it that you’re doing? I thought -- I thought you would just be going inside of me, why are you messing around with the outside?”

Harry doesn’t bother to stop rubbing her as he rolls his eyes, “For fuck sake, what did the prick do just thrust in and out of you?”

She’s having trouble forming coherent thoughts, especially as he shoved her thighs back open, “He — he just, um. . .well, yes, basically that is what he did. He used some lubricant he had, kissed me, and slid inside of me. Was that not what he was meant to do?”

“You’re hopeless,” he uttered, “Of course that’s not what he was meant to do! He should have you so wet from excitement and desire that there is little need for lubricant. This bud here is meant for pleasure and only that -- it serves no other purpose than to make you feel good,” he explained, using his thumb to continue running tight circles over her clit while the rest of his hand rested on her mound, watching as her breathing picked up and her hips absentmindedly twitch toward the feeling, “You can rub it, press it against something, have someone lick it -- truly, the options are endless. Don’t you feel yourself getting wet? I can see it.”

He could; it was happening so quickly, Harry wondered how stupid of a bloke the guy to take her virginity was. With how sensitive she is, it would have taken no time to work her up enough to at least make her cum once before sliding inside of her. Taking the cheap way out -- the selfish way out -- slathering lubricant over his cock just so he could slip in without having to try or work for it. The thought of it pissed Harry off, even more so when he realized how easy it was to make her wet. The fucker couldn’t have even tried to get her ready? He didn’t deserve to bed her at all! Harry had half the mind to ask her who it was so he could track him down and punish him for the blatant inconsiderate, ego-centric behavior.

The first finger slides in easily, and Y/N’s response to the entry is a tiny, startled noise. Her body is bent at the waist as she tries to see over the fabric bunched up around her hips, and Harry kisses his teeth at her, “If you had laid upon the pillows, you wouldn’t have to strain your back to see,” he chastised her, using his free hand to gently press against her chest, guiding her down to flatten out against the mattress, “I know what I’m doing down here, so you focus on telling me if it feels nice or not.”

It sounds foreign coming from Harry’s mouth; almost sickeningly sweet and gentle, but then again, Harry was no monster. Her first time had been shit, this was a very vulnerable position for her, and he’s almost certain that she has never had an orgasm before -- he would be tender. He would make this experience good for her. . .she may be a brat, but she deserved as much. Plus, he’s certain that if she says this time is comparable to her first, his ego would take a hit, because he knew he could do much better. He could make her feel much better.

Her fingers curl in the blankets as she weathers her bottom lip between her teeth, and Harry curls his fingers upward to pet at the spongy spot inside of her. Harry smiles to himself when her walls spasm around his index finger, squeezing him, pulling him deeper, and when he connects his thumb to her clit once again so he is tending to the organ at both ends -- he feels her get even wetter. It slides around his knuckles, and stiffens his prick even further -- Harry absently presses the bulge through his trousers to relieve even a tiny bit of the pressure building there, “Tell me, Chambermaid,” he began, only to confirm his prior beliefs, “Have you ever had an orgasm?”

“I’m unsure,” she replied, swallowing thickly, and it’s then Harry can tell that her lips are slightly stained from the wine, along with a little trickle he must have missed dripping down the corner of her mouth -- from the looks of it she hastily wiped it away but it did little good, “I think so?”

“That’s a no then,” Harry reaches over and holds his thumb in front of her mouth, and it takes her a few seconds before she drops her tongue out for him -- he wets the pad of it before stroking the stain from her chin, “You would know if you have had one before. You’re about to cum right now even -- I can feel from the way you’re squeezing me.”

Harry slid a second finger inside of her, the fit was tight but how wet she was has eased the motion of it. Another sound gets caught in her throat, and Harry tears his eyes away from where she swallows his fingers back up to her face. She’s got her knuckle wedged between her teeth, biting down like she was trying desperately to hold in the moans threatening to leave her. With furrowed brows, Harry grabs at her wrists and tugs firmly, wrenching her hand from her mouth, “Who are you to keep these moans from me?” He sped his fingers, feeling as she squeezed tighter around him accompanied with a mewl, “I’m earning them, am I not? You are not to keep a single sound from me.”

“They are embarrassing!” She complains, but the whine is tailed off in another moan when he takes his hand back, using those fingers to spread her lips open while he swipes the swollen nub with his thumb back and forth. How delicious this looked -- he really could not have expected this from her. No matter how demure she was -- how modest and self-denying -- she was succumbing to the pleasure he brought to her with his fingers. The noises were embarrassing, but with each shaky breath, she whimpered for him. Her cunt was soaked; she looked like she felt so good, and it was because of him. . .not Edgar -- not the greedy fuck who stuffed his cock in her and didn’t care to make sure she was having a good time -- but Harry was. The very man she couldn’t stand.

Harry could cum untouched at the thought.

“I feel --” one hand grips his wrist, “--Sir, I feel something -- I -- this is --”

“Submit to that feeling,” Harry cooed to her, his heart thudding in his chest as he watched her whole body begin to react — to shake, to tremble, her thighs want to squeeze shut around his body but he doesn’t allow it, her heels dig into the mattress, her fingers twist into the fabric of her clothing, the hand around his wrist squeezes tighter, “Embrace it and let it wash over you. And remember that the first person to bring you to such a wonderful, glorious feeling was me and nobody else, Chambermaid.”

Y/N cries out, she soaks his fingers and her knees knock together as she pulls her legs up and toward each other -- shaky gasps and pants leave her mouth as it darts through her body, invigorating each and every cell. A chuckle overcomes him as he watches her, and he rubs and fucks her through it with his fingers until she’s pushing his hands away, “No more!” She tries to wriggle away, “No more, no more, too much.”

Harry withdrew his fingers and pulled them into his mouth -- the display he had witnessed before him and the taste of her on the bed of his tongue, was enough to have him leaking into the satin cream fabric of the trousers he wore. He was pleasantly surprised by how much he was enjoying this, even more so by how taken he was when he looks at her now: breathless, her hair mussed, eyes a little glossy, and lips bitten and slick. Harry is almost certain that if she had been riding him, he would have cum almost instantaneously with her.

“You’ve got such a lewd body,” Harry teased, drying his fingers off on her thigh, “How did that feel?”

“It was very -- it was very new,” she said at first, “Good. It felt very good -- I’ve never felt something like that before.”

Harry smiles, mostly to himself, “Remember to tell Edgar this next time you speak.”

Y/N’s still so taken by what she had just felt, she doesn’t even bother furrowing her brows and grumbling at him how she might have otherwise. He had completely tuckered her out; it was almost adorable. Harry tries to remember his first orgasm and how exhausted it must have left him, but he struggles to come up with the time.

“So will I try that on top of you now?” Y/N inquired as Harry pulled the skirt of her smock down to cover up her thighs once more. He takes her by the wrists and drags her up so she’s sitting, “Do you think you’ll fit inside of me?”

“I believe I’ll fit snugly inside of you,” he answered truthfully, “But not tonight.”

Y/N’s face turned downward, but she did not seem cross with him, only confused, “You do not wish to anymore?”

Harry wishes to. Actually, Harry thinks that there is nothing more that he wants right now than to pull his cock out and slide right inside of her -- but he doesn’t. No, he would cum far too quickly if she got anywhere near his prick with her cunt, and he wants to savor this. This feeling that floods him is unlike anything else he has ever experienced, and he would like to cling to it for a while longer. To build up to it -- he’s fucked her with his fingers, they could only progress from that to more, and more and more. Something better, something hotter. . .something that would have her so wet she was dripping down her thighs, leaving the skin slick and sticky.

“You must rest,” he says instead, and finds himself petting the hair away from her face -- the last time he’d done something this tender with her had been after she’d shouted at him -- he had not realized how much he kind of liked this. How she leaned into his touch instead of recoiling from him. The way her muscles go lax like all she needed was him to touch her and all the stress of the day just eased out of her body. He wonders if he had ever done this with someone before, and he really doesn’t think so, “I will teach you how to ride my cock soon, how about that?”

Though she nods in agreement, she motions toward his crotch and starts shifting toward the edge of the bed while Harry leaves the mattress to stand beside it, “May I put you in my mouth then? I would like to thank you for making me feel that way.”

“Ahh,” Harry reached for the waistband of his trousers, already slipping them off his thighs as he murmurs, “You’re more of a cock whore than I suspected, Chambermaid. Do you like my cum that much?”

That does finally make her glare at him, but Harry only laughs in response as his cock slaps out against his abdomen, and he sheds the blouse top he’d had fixed over his torso. He drops the fabric off to the side, letting it puddle at their feet, “I can be hard to please, but I can be a simple man as well Y/N, and your brazenly wanton behavior has made my cock very hard,” he slides his fingers at the back of her head, down toward the nape, caressing the skin sensitive skin there as he looked down to her -- she seems unfazed by his words now that his prick is out, her gaze trained on it, “So I may not last very long.”

“That’s okay,” she replied, “My jaw began to ache last time, so I don’t mind if you do not last long. And this is not for me, this is for you.”

He huffed a laugh and took a step closer, using the edge of his thumb to press his cock down by the base and biting back a groan when the head skated across her lips, “This is for me? After you begged me to put me in your mouth?”

“I did not beg!” She objects, “You make up stories, Your Highness.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he uttered, though a smile stains his face, “C’mon then, open your mouth and show me how thankful you are.”

Y/N’s mouth falls open easily for him, and as she works him over with her mouth, Harry can tell that despite her not needing the honey when it came to actually licking him last time, she was pretending that it was on him like a guide. From the way she strokes her tongue along the shaft, to how she stops to suckle at the spot just beneath his head -- the movements of her mouth are similar to how they had been on his body -- his hips, his belly, his thighs -- it makes him smile. How cute, he thinks.

As she is with all things in her life, Y/N is meticulous in how she tongues at him, and even more so in how she takes him into her mouth. Harry can tell she’s being mindful of his size and not taking him too far, and he can feel her pant breaths through her nose like he’d instructed in the past. He wonders absently if this was why Edgar was able to teach her to read -- she’s a very teachable person, skilled in her ability to retain what is told to her. Which would make sense as to why everyone was so eager to drop their duties into her lap. Who wouldn’t if they could show her how to do it once, and she’d have it nearly perfect by the second try?

Though she is doing well, it was not to say that her technique was without any mistake, but it paled in comparison to what she was doing. Harry really could not give a fuck less that she got a little sloppy toward the end, spit dribbling down her chin and the subtle graze of her teeth did little to stop his release. If anything they propelled him further toward it as he watched her, swallowing as much as she could of him and taking the rest with her hand, her eyes closed, her brow relaxed. She looked so at ease like this -- he wonders how much of it is her post-orgasmic haze.

The heat in his belly sizzles and boils rapidly, and the fingers he’d just kept as a gentle presence on the back of her head, curl into the hair at the scalp, “I’m going to fill this filthy mouth,” he purred, and Y/N’s tongue flickers and massages over the tip, already swallowing the precum leaking from him, “Swallow it all.”

Harry thinks the last bit may have been pointless because as he begins to cum in her mouth, shot after shot that makes his hips twitch (though he tries his best to keep from thrusting into her mouth), he realizes she never planned not to swallow. If anything, she took down what he gave her greedily.

“Was that good?” She inquires after slipping his softening prick from her mouth, drying her lips with the back of his hand, “Was it better than last time?”

It was wonderful. . .you learn very quickly, and the fact that you’re doing this with the pleasure of my brother in mind is pissing me off unlike anything else -- he thinks it to himself, but he shoves the blatant praise and irritation down, and instead, reaches up to cradle her cheek, striping his thumb along the soft skin, feeling the heat from the blood rushing beneath the surface.

“You did well,” once again, he notes how she leans into his touch, “You must have had an amazing teacher.”

Her face falls flat at him, while she averts her gaze to something else in the room.

“You’re annoying, Sir,” she utters, “And you still can’t punish me, ‘cos I just let you cum in my mouth again.”

. . .

“I’m going with you.”

With each passing day, Harry recognized the smoky tendrils of his breath circling around his mouth more often in the cold air. Every morning brought a recognizable chill that only autumn could bring, the afternoons were filled with a sun that’s rays of warmth never quite make it to your skin, and the nights are best spent cozy beside a fire

(Harry is often thankful that Y/N had quit her gardening before it became so frigid out; seeking her out to feed her belly slices of breads and pastries would have been more of a chore if he had to put on a coat to do so).

And with each day, Harry witnessed the smolder beneath Edgar’s gaze every time he caught Y/N and Harry together. Watched it spark to a burning flame when Y/N was not immediately disgusted by Harry’s presence and held back giggles when it blazed brightly if the two of them acted more familiar with one another than she and Edgar did. At the root of it all, she and Harry were objectively closer; Edgar may have years of friendship and one-sided adoration on him, but he and Y/N share secrets and underlying chemistry that cannot be denied. Even if said chemistry is driven by bickering and goading with slivers of common ground found in the middle, it was still better than whatever the hell was going on between those two. Harry wondered if it was as clear to Y/N as it was to him, that Edgar pretends to see her as his equal but really views her as a loyal pup; one who comes when called sits beside him when he’s lonely, and can be ignored for weeks at a time but still comes with a wagging tail to take tea with him.

Harry knows he’s an arse, but at the very least he sees her as a human. One with thoughts and feelings that surpass childlike devotion.

Today, Harry had been seeking Y/N out with a lemon tart dusted in powdered sugar, and that was when he found her near the main entry point of the castle. She was adorned in her new smock per his request (after Harry confronted her about not wearing it the first few days after she received it, she’d admitted to him she was worried she would ruin it, to which he told her he’d simply have the seamstress make her another), but this time she had a forest green cloak slung around her shoulders, the hood flipped up, and gloves covering her fingers which she had wrapped tightly around the handle of a basket. The fabric of this cloak did not seem very thick, but it would do well with this weather at least. Any colder and she would be frostbitten in seconds.

Of course, Harry’s interest was immediately piqued. Sure, she could be going out to tend to something outside within the perimeter of the outer guard towers, but he highly doubted that she’d be carrying the basket for that. As far as he’d been concerned Y/N had never left the castle walls, but she didn’t seem very nervous. If anything, she seemed like she was in a bit of a hurry to get it over with as she was taking off toward the door, “Oi,” Harry calls from across the corridor, and apparently startling her since her response was to nearly jumping from her skin, “Where are you going, Chambermaid?”

She turned to face him, raising the basket up a little higher and revealing there was a book inside of it -- a book very familiar to Harry, “The doctor asked me if I could go pick up some medicinal herbs from a shop down there. He would have gone himself but he had other matters to tend to.”

“And you’re comfortable going down to the village alone?” Harry pressed, carefully unwrapping the lemon tart from the handkerchief he’d hid it in, and then reaching down to pull the glove off her left hand, replacing it with the pastry.

Y/N nodded, “Yes, Your Highness. My parents enjoy the sticky toffee pudding from a bakery down there, so I trade some of my embroideries for it and bring it back often.”

“Ahh,” Harry hummed, watching as she pulled the lemon tart to her mouth and took a small bite, “So that is where you inherited such a sweet tooth, hm?” She smiled gently as her response, and Harry shrugged his shoulders, “Alright then, I’m going.”

Y/N swallowed what was in her mouth, “What?”

“I’m going with you,” he repeated as if it were obvious, and really, at this point, it should be -- if Y/N was involved, Harry was undoubtedly going to involve himself in some way -- especially if she were planning to walk all the way to village by herself in this cold. . .really, Edgar must never keep an eye on her if she’s used to doing something so dangerous (or Edgar knows, and doesn’t care, which pisses Harry off a fair amount), “Give me one moment to get something thicker over my shoulders, and then we should be on our way.”

Harry begins to pivot so he can take off toward his room, but Y/N stops him, “Wait!” She takes a step in front of his path, making him pause, “Sir, it would be dangerous for just you and I to go alone! I am unable to guard you properly, I’m much too weak for it.”

With a snort, he rolled his eyes, “Well, obviously I wasn’t expecting you to guard me. You’re about as threatening as a baby bunny,” he stepped around her, “I’ll have Adam come along, and he’ll get the carriage ready as well. A day in the village would do us both some good, it gets too stuffy in these walls.”

It is relatively easy to find Adam, always at his post looking bored out of his mind. His eyes light up when Harry suggests that he come with him and Y/N to town and he seemed more than elated, saying he would be quick about preparing a carriage, and even quicker about getting another guard for additional safety. Harry did not see the need for a second guard, but when Adam told him he’d be bringing Mitch, Harry didn’t mind -- Mitch was quiet and kept to himself, but funny when he did choose to speak. However, he was typically stationed near Edgar’s chambers, so it was rare that Harry saw him.

In just ten minutes, Harry and Y/N meet Adam and Mitch at the outer gate. Y/N seems slightly overwhelmed by the additional company but she still greets them with a warm, friendly smile to which Adam promptly rumples his lips and regards her familiarly, “How’ve you been, Y/N? Still doing everyone’s work for them?”

“You know that she is.” Mitch spoke unprompted while holding out his hand for her to take, helping her step up into the carriage, “She is horrible at saying no, which is why she entertains your Chess games.”

Adam huffs, “She loves playing chess, tell him!”

“I did not know you three were so close,” Harry mentions as he climbs into the carriage after her. Mitch is the one who will sit out with the man guiding the horses while Adam climbs in to sit across from them on the velvet seats, plopping down with the noisy clink and clank of his armor.

Y/N wiggles, trying to comfortably hold the basket on her lap until Adam grabs it and sets it down beside him on the seat, “We have known each other for quite some time, Your Highness. I don’t tell on Adam when he falls asleep on watch duty and in turn, he will go with me when I must clean the guard’s towers at night, so nobody will be rude to me.”

“And Y/N is the only one who can make Mitch chuckle, though she won’t tell me what she’s whispering in his ear. I reckon they’re making fun of me.” Adam adds.

Harry is unsure how to feel; on one hand, he is pleased that she has people like this, who look out for and trust her, similar to how her friend Edith does. On the other hand, Harry feels an ugly little pit of possessiveness drop down in the depth of his gut. Does Adam act as her guard? Does Mitch laugh at her jokes? Were these simply signs of friendship or did they have feelings for her? Did they know of her feelings for Edgar? Did they care that he spent an ample amount of time with her? Harry thinks he would. . .if he liked her in such a way but a Prince was taking all of her time, he thinks that would grate his nerves deeply.

But neither seemed to care much. Either Harry was creating stories again (just as Y/N accused him of) or their poker faces were magnificent.

“I see you two have gotten close in the last month,” Adam mentions as the carriage starts to move, and they all jostle a little as the wheels crunch over gravel, “The guards have a saying now, that if you’re looking for Y/N, then look for Prince Harry and vice versa.”

A small grin took Harry’s mouth, “Yes, the two of us are thick as thieves,” he replied, “We share a love for breakfast sweets, have common fears, and enjoy trying things out together, so of course, we would be incredibly close. Oh! And Y/N just loves honey, almost as much as she loves cu--”

“You like plants, don’t you, Your Highness?” Suddenly the book Y/N had been carrying in the basket is stuffed right below his nose, cracked open to what appeared to be a random page, “The calendula flower is said to heal burns from the sun, along with aid in the care of scratches and scrapes.”

Harry bit down hard on his lip to keep from cackling at her clear diversion, instead taking the book from her hands and setting it lower in his lap, “Yes, I’m familiar with this one,” his gaze flickered up to Adam, who appeared clueless to what just happened before him, mouth stretching wide around a rather loud yawn that he just barely covers with his hand, “What is it that this physician is having you go out in the cold to get, instead of taking his-bloody-self?”

She’s tentative in how she flips the pages to the back cover of the book, where there was a list scrawled in the doctor’s handwriting. Harry pretends he has any interest in the slip of paper as to ease the transition of her deflection -- through, and through, despite how he teases and taunts her, Harry is a kinder Prince to Y/N than he is to anyone else. Even if she did not see that. Who else would he have created a fire for, or forced to have even a few moments of rest after being used by the other workers of the castle? And who else would he have left the warmth of the castle to venture out in the cold autumn morning for, just so she had a carriage and at least some form of protection with her, instead of wandering about a village by her lonesome -- no matter how familiar she is with the area?

The ride to the village isn’t tumultuous or long. Once they pass the gravel paths of the castle, there are paths of worn dirt that make for a much smoother ride through the coloring trees of the forest (Harry believes come spring, they will have started to place stone through this area since it is so often traveled), and Harry would say it was just around a 20-minute ride. Though there were several stops that added an additional ten minutes -- checkmarks in place to make sure those traveling through the forest were meant to be doing such a thing. Harry and Adam had both successfully chatted the entirety of the ride, while Y/N quietly flipped through the pages of the plant book. Harry wonders if she is actually interested in them or if she’s using this as a way to pass the time.

There is always hustle and bustle within the village; each visit Harry makes, he doesn’t think there’s even a moment of lull or quiet as horses’ hooves clap against the ground, the chatter of voices from peddlers, old women reminiscing about their trips down south, so on and so forth. From what Harry could tell and had witnessed, the people in the towns nearest to them always had much more wealth, but Harry had made trips to the sectors further away from them. And while there may not be as many glittery jewels and intricately designed clothing, they were certainly not starving -- his mother made certain that a kingdom under his father and her rule would not be a hungry one.

Harry stepped from the carriage first, and this time instead of allowing Adam the chance to, he held his gloved hand out for Y/N to take as she hopped out. Mitch, the coachman, and the horses would stay in place while they went to get what they needed, and at first, Y/N promises that they would be quick, but Harry shushes her, “There are a few places I wish to visit as well, Chambermaid, don’t be selfish.”

They go to the medicinal plant shop first, Y/N shows the shopkeep her list and says who they are there for despite it being somewhat obvious with Harry standing at her side. Harry wonders if the man would have been as kind as he was to her if not for the prince being there, but Y/N seemed to be familiar with him to some extent. He’s quick in his gathering, filling half of her basket with different packets of herbs, and even a few things that the physician didn’t request that the man promises are on the house. Y/N pays him, thanks him kindly, and the man stops Harry to tell him how much he admires the royal family.

“You’re kind, old man,” Harry let him hold his hand, “But the only one worth your praise is my mother. Stay well.”

As they walked out of the store, Y/N began to speak, “Prince Harry,” she inquired, “If you do not mind me asking — do you not care for the king?”

“My father?” Harry repeats, and she nods, “Well, he’s an arsehole who spends his time drinking wine and pitting his son’s against one another. When I was little he used to strike me with his hand when I could not understand arithmetic, and he’s always made me feel worthless. So no, I can’t say I care much for him at all. But never mind that,” he slides his arm over her shoulder, “We’re visiting the jewelers, I want more rings.”

It was a half-truth: Harry wanted rings, sure, but his main objective of going to the jeweler was to look at the hairpins. He had not been to this particular store since he was a child, but he recalls that he used to marvel at all the things inside. Hell, the face he had made when he was little was probably similar to the face Y/N was making as they stepped inside. Her mouth had fallen open, she fixed the basket closer to her body, seeming almost uncomfortable walking in.

“Sir,” she cleared her throat, “Should I not wait outside with Adam while you shop?”

“Now why would you do a silly thing like that?” Harry let his fingertips dance along the hanging necklaces, feeling the crystals shift beneath his touch, feeling the eyes of the shopkeep bore into him as she realized who he was, “I’ll need a woman’s opinion after all.”

“Your Highness!” A shrill voice called, “Oh, how thankful I am that you came into our store! Is there anything in particular that you’re searching for?”

Harry turned toward the woman, who was a head or so shorter than Y/N and pushed past the poor chambermaid without even so much as a glance in her direction. A ballsy move by the woman indeed, because despite her clothes that say she’s a servant, she did enter with royalty. Servants in the castle were typically treated quite well by the people of the village -- Harry’s never really understood why, but it was an unspoken rule amongst many, and apparently, it had not come to this shopkeeper’s ears. Had Y/N not been planted any firmer on her feet, she would have certainly been knocked into the displays surrounding them, basket and all.

“Yes, you can help me,” Harry replied, before pointing at Y/N, who had stepped further away, staring at a different display in what she deemed was out of the way, “Find me a few hairpins that match her skin tone and complexion then bring them to me to choose from. If you half-ass it, I’ll have the shop shut down,” he smiled, tipping his head toward her, “I’ll be looking at the rings.”

He doesn’t wait to see the woman’s face, instead, he ambles over to the rings as he had said. Harry does not care for those who feel they’re better than servitude — truly, they are all one bad day away from being homeless, broken, and in need of shelter. Some people are just born into being servants (as Y/N was), some have no other choice for shelter than that. Nobody is better than anyone. . .Harry doesn’t believe he was better than anyone; it was sheer, pure luck that he was born to the right people.

Harry looks back to check at Y/N often though he doesn’t make it clear that he was. Fleeting glances to see she has stayed planted near the door, holding the basket close to her body, and smiling politely every time the shopkeep comes near her. Her discomfort is obvious -- for a moment Harry is considering how he could ease this discomfort without her having to leave his line of sight, but before he can make a move, the woman who he’d sent to collect hairpins is at his side.

“These are our finest jeweled hairpins, Your Highness. I hope you find them to your taste.”

Four of these hairpins are held between her fingers, all of them incredibly charming: one using garnet, another amethyst, the third green kunzite, and the last a very bright amber. The design of them was similar, with the actual pin a color that would disappear in the strands of her hair before the end piece fanned out in white petals, the jewel sat in the center. From the flower, a chain dangled and a smaller, identical flower swung back and forth. They were unlike something he had seen before, and certainly better than whatever Edgar had passed onto her as his cheap attempt at making her feel special. Harry would show her what it was like to be special -- he would buy her the one that would suit her beautifully.

“I choose the amethyst, along with these rings,” he flattened out his hand, showing the four rings he held in his palm, “What is your price?”

“Please, take them for free, Sir! It is simply an honor to have you in my store. I share the same courtesy with Prince Edgar.”

Harry shook his head, “I’m paying you,” he said sternly, “My brother is a cheap prick and I will not be of the same level as him; I have the money to give you, so I will now name your price.”

She eventually relents, Harry gives her the money and she packages the hairpin in a delicate velvet box. His rings she packages in sets of two, smaller velvet boxes, and Harry calls Y/N over with her basket. He places all of them inside, “What did you get, Sir?” Y/N inquired but he hushed her as he guided them from the store.

Harry ignores her for now.

“Where is the sticky toffee pudding? I trust your family has good taste, I would like to try it.”

. . .

Harry does not give Y/N the hairpin until later that night, after his bath, once she had fixed his fire and was asking him if there was anything else he would like before she went to perform the rest of her duties. “Ah, yes, of course,” he replied, walking toward his dresser where he had laid it open, “I have something that I purchased with you in mind,” he grabbed it, walking the short distance back toward the door where she stood, “Remember Y/N, that I am a man of my word: I told you I would do this and so I did.”

Y/N seemed confused, “Prince Harry? What do you mean? And what did you give me your word for?” He passes it to her and watches contently as her eyes almost instantaneously go wide, “Wait --”

“Now you can trash that ugly thing Edgar bought. It feels much better to wear finery that was meant for you from the start.”

There are no words that describe how pleased Harry is as he watched her marvel at the delicate jewel, the way her fingers trembled from how gentle she was trying to be as she touched it, “I cannot,” she began, shaking her head, gaze soft and wide when it settles on him, “I cannot accept this, Sir, this — this is too much for me to accept.”

His brows furrowed, “You can and you will,” he said sternly, “You accepted Edgar’s. Why is mine any different?”

“Because I knew Prince Edgar hadn’t bought it for me, I — it is too beautiful for me to wear.” Y/N tried to hand it back to him, but Harry refused to accept it, sliding his arms around his body, looking as if he were about to scold her and honestly, he was moments away from it.

“You say such stupid things,” he chides, “If it was bought with you in mind, then don’t you think you’d be suited to wear it? I swear, for such a smart girl, you love to play dense don’t you?”

It was her turn to frown at him, face pinching up in a scowl, “I do not play dense! I just don’t understand why you have been doing such nice things for me lately -- it’s making me nervous! I thought you hated me.”

“Who said I hated you?”

“You did!” She cries out, “You said it, the very first time we met!”

“I never said I hated you, I said I didn’t like you -- those are two different things. I hate my brother, do you see me doing any nice things for him?” She shook her head, “Well, then there’s your answer. Besides, it’s not even like I don’t like you anymore. You get beneath my skin on most days, but you’re not as horrible as I had imagined when we first spoke to one another.” He reaches out for the hairpin, plucking it from the cushion that it rested atop of, “Having my cock in your mouth or my fingers stuffed inside of you aren’t too much, but a hairpin is? Would you truly refuse a gift from me?”

Y/N appears to be marginally distressed as she quietly picks it up from his palm, “Thank you. . .thank you so much. You. . .you are too kind to me sometimes, Prince Harry, and other times you make me so angry I could scream. I do not understand you at all, but I. . .I will work hard to be someone worthy of such a gift.”

Harry chuckles warmly, trying (and failing) to ignore how his belly sparkles from her words, taking the hand that had been holding the pin and letting it cradle her face instead, “Would you like to learn how to ride a cock tonight?” My cock -- he would like to add, but he bites his tongue -- he has been horribly possessive as of late, and it seems to be getting worse and worse with each passing day.

“Oh, yes!” She nodded quickly, “Yes! I would like to learn tonight.”

“Eager,” Harry replied, “Who would have known you would be so cock hungry, Chambermaid?”

She scowls at him once more, “I am not cock hungry! I just -- I thought maybe you had forgotten, or that you did not want to touch me in such a way. I thought that was the reason you did not teach me the other night.”

No, that was because I was so hard I would have cum far too soon and the experience would have been lackluster for you, and despite appearances, I am not a selfish lover, “You think too hard,” Harry retorted, “Strip down -- I want everything off.”

“Oh,” she replaced the hairpin inside of the box, closing it before clutching it tightly in her hands, “But is that -- is that truly necessary? You have never seen my upper half, Sir, that’s embarrassing.”

“I had my fingers in your cunt, Chambermaid, but your breasts are what you decide to be shy about? And you say I’m the one who is hard to understand,” he takes the jewelry box, walks to his nightstand, and sets it there, “Get undressed.”

Y/N took the tie of her bodice between her thumb and forefinger, pulling it undone from behind her back, “You are crass and distasteful,” she uttered, “Everyone of the court always speaks so highly of you in bed, yet nobody has ever spoken of your foul mouth.”

“Eavesdropping is unbecoming,” Y/N is dragging the skirt of the smock up and over her head, revealing the undergarments she had below. Where women of the court usually have intricate layers of corsets and hoop skirts, Y/N wears nothing but a thin piece of cloth covering her bits that she pulls down and kicks off. Her breasts were bare to him, nipples hardened by the cool air slithering through the window, and goosebumps pimple her skin. Harry’s cock had already begun to stir, fattening in his trousers just from the sight of her alone.

“You’re cruel,” Y/N huffs as Harry steps forward, an impish grin on his face as his hands meet her sides, stroking up toward her breasts.

“Am I?” Harry murmured, taking another step forward, which forces her to take a step back, and he keeps doing so until the backs of her knees meet the mattress and she drops down on top of it -- she bounces with the springs, and her tits do as well. Harry remembers that he’s about to see a very similar version of this but with her tight around his prick and he stiffens even more, “I don’t think so,” he crawls over the top of her as she scoots back further into the bed, “If I were so cruel, then I wouldn’t consider putting my tongue on your pussy. Now open your mouth and pretend I have wine in mine.”

He lowers down to meet her lips, sliding his tongue against hers. She tastes sweet, like the peach juice she had told him she was going to drink before preparing his bath, and her mouth was warm and soft. Y/N was surprisingly enthusiastic in kissing him back, rolling their tongues together, murmuring these little whimpers when his fingers slid down the front of her tummy and stroked her thighs. He avoided where he knew she wanted it most, even when she gave a demanding rock of her hips. Harry bit her bottom lip, it made her squeak as he tugged it away from her mouth before releasing it, “Don’t be greedy,” he licks where he nipped like an apology, soothing it over.

“That hurt,” she pouted, and it only made him want to bite her again but he refrains.

No, instead he uses his free hand to thumb over her mouth, cooing, “Did it?” He mocks her, but she still nods her head despite him, “Oh, I’m sorry, Sweetheart,” he coos, “I’ll make it better, hm?” Harry leans in, pulls her bottom lip into his mouth, and gently suckles at it. While he does this, he skates his fingers against her mound, then down her lower lips, carefully moving past her clit, down to her hole. He doesn’t sink in, but dances his fingers around it -- she gets wet like she’s never been touched before. Every little touch, whether it be with his mouth, his tongue, or his hands.

Harry wonders if she is thinking of him while this is happening, or if fleeting thoughts of his brother still needle into her mind. He hates the thought of it -- he understands that he told her he’d help for the benefit of her knowing what to do with Edgar, but every time they do this that feels more and more like a lie. He decides that he wants to be the only person she’s thinking about, when she’s like this -- with her legs spread, wet between her thighs, needy and wanting. Maybe that’s why he speaks so much throughout it. . .he wouldn’t give her the chance to think of anyone but him.

“You get so wet, so quickly,” he told her, “I’ve barely touched you, and you’ve already collected this hm?” He withdraws his fingers, holding them between his and her face before stretching the two apart. A thin string of her juices stretches to a snap before he slips them into his mouth, humming around them, “Have you ever tasted yourself?” She shook her head, “You taste very sweet,” he murmured, “It must be what I’m feeding you. Here --” he reaches back down, swirls his fingers inside of her again, strips it down against his tongue, and then slips back into her mouth again. When he parts this time, he catches her as she flutters her eyes back open, “Did you taste?”

“I think so,” she replied, “You really enjoy how I taste?”

Harry nods, pressing himself up from the mattress so he was sitting on his knees, “You taste delightful,” he murmured, digging his fingers into the tender flesh of her thighs, “If you’re good for me, next time I’ll lick into you until you spasm around my tongue. Unbutton my top.”

Y/N moves to sit as well, but not without a small grumble; when Harry asks for her to repeat herself, she does, “I said you have too many buttons. I hate how many there are.”

“Ah, I see, because you want me naked quickly, is that it?”

She huffs but says nothing as she begins to unbutton them, slipping each button from the slit of the silk blouse. There are an absurd amount of buttons on this top, it was true, but he liked watching her as she did it. The way she chewed on her bottom lip, delicate fingers popping them out, and when her eyes flicker up to meet him, she realizes he’s staring at her, and gets all shy again, darting them back to his chest. It makes Harry laugh as she finishes them off, doing the last few buttons and sliding the fabric from his shoulders.

“You have very --” she began, but then shook her head, “Your chest is very nice.” She corrected herself, lifting her hands hesitantly and letting her fingertips graze his skin carefully. The tips of her fingers are cold and similar to her own, his chest pebbles from the cool air and her cool touch. Harry would love to have her exploring and touching his body but he gets swept up in the icy feel of them, as he gathers her by the wrists and brings both hands to his mouth. He cups them in his own and breathes on them, before nuzzling his face against them.

“Why’re your fingers so cold?” He murmured, “Is it my room? Must I shut the window so you don’t freeze?”

Y/N shook her head, “I’m sorry, Sir,” she replied, “I am a bit chilly. The physician told me once this is a sign of my body trying to maintain its natural temperature; it is important to keep the core of your body warm though, so that’s where the focus is.”

“Listen to you,” he squeezed her hands once more, before letting them go, lowering his own fingers to slip into the waistband of his trousers -- his bulge was clear, shaped along his left thigh where he’d tucked it previously, “You’ve got quite the brain, Chambermaid, remembering everything you’re taught. I’ll teach you something else related to the sciences -- additional, bare body heat is the best way to conserve warmth,” he pushed them down, “You’ll heat right up for me.”

He removes the pants, his cock bobbing out. Harry cannot recall a time he had been this hard, except for maybe when he was fingering her the other night. He had a much better grasp on himself tonight, where he believed he could last much longer than a few seconds as was threatened the last time he had her like this. Harry crawls up to the head of his bed, lying among the pillows and spreading his legs out, “Come here,” he told her, waving her over, “I want you to sit in front of me and fuck yourself open with your fingers, yeah? Until you think you can handle my cock.”

Her shoulders sank as she crawled over to him, “I don’t think it would be best with me using my own fingers,” she told him, “I fear they aren’t big enough to do as well.” Despite her saying it wouldn’t work, she still scooted so her legs were spread out, tucked beneath his, such a filthy display, like something found in paintings in the back of naughty shops that he and his brother were told to never go into when they ventured out to the village (Harry then, went out of his way to get inside of one).

“I reckon you just want me doing all the work,” he teased, “What if your flower is aching and I’m not there to stuff you full of my fingers, hm? If you can’t learn to do it then you’ll be a mess.”

Still, she seemed nervous, but Harry was firm in wanting to see her try at the very least. He watched as her hand sank down but he stopped her, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her hand to his fingers before he slipped them into his mouth. Harry sucked on two of them until they were slick from his spit, before popping off of them and letting her continue. First, her fingers come into contact with her clit, and she jumps slightly from the contact, looking up to him like she was checking to see if she was doing it right. Harry smiled and nodded, encouraging her to continue, and watched as she experimentally lulled the button beneath her fingers. He can tell she likes it -- the way her hips rock into her fingers, how her toes curl, the way her lips trembled, and how her chest heaved.

No matter how adorable the display was, Harry touched the inside of her thighs, “I know you feel good,” he crooned, “But practice stretching yourself open.”

She nods, sliding her fingers down, and dipping inside of herself immediately. Harry’s brows raised as her own furrowed slightly, as she slipped them in deep, down to her knuckle, and then she slipped them out and did it again, but she’s disgruntled. An annoyed sigh leaves her, “It isn’t the same,” she whined, looking up to him, “It doesn’t feel as good as when you do it!"

Harry bit back on another laugh, both of his hands stroking up and down the inside of her thighs, “Try again,” he murmured, “This time when you sink them in, curl your fingers up. You’ll hit that spot inside of you.”

And she did try again -- sank them in and curled them up, but she still shook her head, “Can’t you just do it?”

Harry fixes his hands around her thighs with a sigh, tugging her closer to him so he could touch her more comfortably, “You’re absolutely hopeless,” Harry sighed, replacing her fingers with his -- he would admit, they probably reached in deeper, and he had heard from women before that stimulating their own spongy spot does not feel the same as someone else. Still, he enjoys provoking her, “Can’t do a thing without me, huh? Need me to do everything for you? Make you feel good?”

The usual huff and grumble that he would have expected is replaced by a complacent nod, a whimper of, “Yes, please,” that makes his cock twitch, and beads of precum slide down from the tip. Oh. . .oh, Harry liked this. How could he like when she is irritated with him and when she’s begging? Why did both elicit such a response from him?

He curls them up, rolling the swollen button beneath his thumb in fast circles, and watching as she gets all worked up all over again, especially when she starts scissoring her open. Her chest rising and following quickly, gentle little sounds escaping her throat, her thighs shaking, the hand she isn’t using to hold herself up has a tight grip around his ankle, like she just needed to hold onto something. Her walls milk his fingers, pulsing around them, squeezing him tight and taking him in -- the thought of his cock inside of her is enough to make him leak more, and his heart is racing -- he wonders if it’s as quick as hers. If they are beating in tandem. . .could hearts link in moments like these?

Harry withdrew his fingers when it seemed like she was about to cum much to her displeasure, but she had no chance to protest or fuss at him, “Okay,” he began, “What you’re going to do is crawl on top of me. Some people do this squatting, but I think it will be easier for you to stay on your knees. You’ll straddle me -- there you go, just like that,” he nodded, then praised, “Good girl. I’ll help you guide it inside, but you control how you sink down on it -- how slow or fast, and how much you take. If at any point you want to stop, tell me, and we will stop immediately. Okay?”

“Okay,” she murmured, swallowing thickly, the nerves reintroduced into her system as Harry took ahold of his prick and painted it up and down her slit a few times before budding it at her hole. Harry is true to his word -- his free hand he uses to rest on her hip and aids her in getting just the very tip in, holding it upright for her before he instructs her to go ahead and try.

Like always, Y/N is incredibly careful as she slowly begins to lower. Harry digs his front teeth into his bottom lip, eyes fluttering slightly as he feels her walls take the head of him inside of her. She was so hot inside he felt like he could melt, and wet enough that her juices slid around him. Y/N’s hands were flattened, resting on his stomach as she worked herself down, rocking and rolling her lips, getting him in even lower. She was moving off instinct, driven by her desire and pleasure. Harry felt so excited -- so enraptured at the moment, in her, in being her first -- in her asking him to do this. Fuck sake, this was amazing, wasn’t it? This was so fucking good, and amazing, and so was she. How cute was she like this? All overwhelmed, feeling full, sinking down slowly with her fingertips dipping into the skin of his belly. And when her bum had met the tops of his thighs -- when she had taken him all the way in, and he was struggling not to take her hips and fuck into her -- she looked at him with the softest, sweetest smile that made his heart feel entirely too big.

“I did it,” she gleamed at him, giggling, and when she giggled she squeezed around him, “You’re all the way in. I feel so full.”

“Fuck,” he breathed out, digging his fingers into her hips to ground himself, “You did so well. I really didn’t expect you to take it all so quickly.” She smiled at him, slowly and experimentally rolling her hips, gasping, holding onto him tighter, “That’s it, baby,” he stretched his legs out wider for her, “Just like that -- you’re doing so well.”

Y/N thrives off the praise, like an eager puppy -- he would have flattered her much more throughout their time together if he had known that this was something that she got off on. She lifts herself a little, then lowers back down, then lifts herself up more -- slowly working herself up until she is pulling halfway off his cock and dropping back down. Her breasts are bouncing, Harry watches closely as his cock disappears inside of her. It’s so gorgeous -- something so delightful to watch.

“Does it feel good?” She asks between moans, becoming less rhythmic in her bouncing, more sloppy the better she feels, “Do you feel good?”

“I feel so good,” he told her truthfully -- how could he not when she was so wet, warm, and soft on the inside -- ridges sliding against his shaft, the head of his cock pumping into her g-spot, “Do you. . .hm --” he took a deep breath, “Do you think I could do a little bit for you? Think I could fuck up into you?”

Harry had, had every intention of letting her take control the entire time, but he was nearing the end of his thread. He needed to see it -- needed to feel and hear how she would sound and look, and how her body would respond to him thrusting inside of her. If she said no -- if she said she didn’t want that, then he wouldn’t push her, but christ, if she did want it --

“You can do that,” she agreed, “I wouldn’t mind if you did -- my thighs -- the muscles in my thighs are burning.”

That was all Harry needed -- he fixed his hands on her hips, scooted a little lower on the bed, and fucked his hips up into her. Y/N cries out, her hands falling to his chest this time as he snapped his hips up, and he thinks the head of his cock is nestled against her spot even better this way. Each movement punched out a sweet, desperate sound from her throat. “You’re just sucking me right in,” he mewled, grabbing her hand again, directing it toward her clit, “Go on and play with this little button how you were -- remember how good it felt?”

Her eyes had fluttered closed but she found her clit, rubbing in circles, moaning even louder, “Prince Harry,” she whimpered, “I feel like I’m going to cum soon.”

“Good,” he murmured, “It’s okay to cum -- soak my cock.”

It only took a few seconds more, of her rubbing her clit and Harry pounding into her, she began to throb around him in squeezes, milking him, wetting his cock with her juices as her thighs shook and she stilled. When the first wave of it passes through her, her body quivers and Harry pulls her down by the shoulders to smear their lips together once more. It was useless trying to kiss her right now -- she held her mouth open for him but she was only moaning against his tongue. God, how absolutely fucking precious was she?

Harry slips out of her, pumps his cock in between them four good times before he’s cumming in between them, his toes curling as he paints both of their stomachs with his cum. It was intense -- the hardest he thinks he’s ever came as he empties between them. It had been his turn to moan into her mouth, breathless, panting, trying to make sense of the dizziness that swims through him as the remnants of his orgasm sparkle through his body. Why had all of that been so breathtaking? Harry cannot recall a time he had been this satisfied, and ready to indulge all over again.

He would indulge, if not for the exhausted chambermaid flopped down on top of him. It makes him giggle, and he begins to stroke her back, “Have you tired yourself out?”

“Yes,” she replied, a lot quicker than he would have expected -- he had thought she was falling asleep, “Doing the work is exhausting.”

“Doing the work? You put in about eight minutes of effort, I did the rest.” he absently swatted at her bum, watching over her shoulder as the skin jiggled, and biting back the urge to do it again when she jumps and makes a startled noise.

She pushes her face up from where she’d buried it into his neck, face in another frown and hair mussed, “It was a hard eight minutes! I have never done that before, not all of us can be so. . .well versed, in things like this, Your Highness. Some of us have to work throughout the day -- which I need to be doing right now.”

“You wound me,” he placed his palm on her upper back, flat between her shoulder blades before pushing down, “Rest for now. The most important tasks you have, have already been completed for the night, so there is no need to worry.”

Y/N allows him to ease her back down into his body, not bothering to question his suddenly cuddly nature. Though Harry wouldn’t really regard it as sudden -- Harry had always been quite into a cuddle, but there were very few people Harry could stomach the thought of cuddling with, even out of those who he bedded. Y/N was different though. . .Y/N had made him cum like that, and still smelled light, like lemon and fresh linen as she always does. Harry could tuck his face into her throat and sleep better than he’s had in years, he’s sure of that -- or maybe that’s just the post-orgasmic haze that he’s fallen into, swimming through fluffy clouds of warmth and contentment. He didn’t even mind the stickiness of his cum in between them, nor their sweat.

“By having completed my most important tasks, you mean your bath and your fire, don’t you, Your Highness?” She inquired, her cheek resting against his shoulder.

“That’s exactly what I mean,” Harry hums, “And I’ve grown bored of hearing you call me that. All the titles you have for me, actually. ”

He can picture the scowl on her face as she questions, “What am I meant to call you then?”

Harry lets his eyes flutter closed.

“Call me Harry. And maybe I’ll consider calling you something other than Chambermaid.”

. . .

Exhaustion weighed heavily on Y/N’s bones.

She was overworked, overtired, and overstressed from an awful week; it felt as if the day she returned to the servant’s quarters with the hairpin Harry had gifted her (still in the box) things had become hectic. It was not as if she had goaded about what she was given -- really, she had only mentioned it to Edith, but Edith knew how and when to keep her mouth closed about certain things. Y/N never wanted any of the other servants to believe that there was any favor given to her by either of the princes because she felt that there was nothing more than slight partialities. It had always been clear with Prince Edgar, that she had only been their servant since they were little and he’d grown used to her being around, that he treated her kindly. Prince Harry, however -- his goals and intentions were very confusing to her, and if they were confusing to her, then she could see where the view of their relationship could be skewed. Hell, she’s almost eighty percent certain that the only reason Harry does things is to spite Edgar. . .she doesn’t think it has much to do with him liking her more than a potential friend.

But the others did not see things this way, and for that, she could not blame them. Edgar was quiet in their friendship -- they took tea together, he would gift her things sometimes (not often, and sure, they may have been meant for someone else but she was still receiving them so she had been delighted), and they would talk about things that Y/N probably shouldn’t know about, but he made her feel as if she were his confidant. From a different perspective, it matched that of a loyal, longstanding servant and royalty. Nothing unheard of and nothing unseen -- people could be a little peeved, but they could not cry favoritism.

Harry was loud -- he always came with sweets, breads, and fruits she otherwise would not have gotten to eat had he not brought them to her. If he couldn’t find her, he would come lurking through the servant’s quarters until he did, or he’d ask around for her until he was directed to where she might be. He orders him to his room every night to prepare his bath and his fire and sometimes keeps her in there longer -- like when she was meant to be helping with the party and he had her sitting in his room to embroider. How he demanded she stay in his room after she’d promised the seamstress she would help spool her thread, then turned around and made that same seamstress make her a new smock. Would loudly state when there were others around that everyone should be doing their own work and not passing it off to burden someone else.

This upset people greatly, but Y/N felt it wasn’t because of the gifts, or the sweets, or even his passive-aggressive statements. She fears that the reason they are so angry is that when Prince Harry is taking up her time with his antics, she is unable to perform the duties that she had been doing for them. For the first time in a very long time, they were being forced to do all of their work, not just bits and pieces while Y/N picked up on anything they faltered on.

And she doesn’t know why she does it -- she knows it’s silly, and that they are using her, but it is so hard for her to deny them. It was hard for her to deny anyone, really, and she thinks Harry had always known this. She believes that in the beginning, he utilized this to his advantage, but the longer they spent time with one another, he had grown irate with this trait of hers. There was always a sense of glee she noticed oozing from his every pore when she snapped at him, or was short, or said something that would have had her struck had she said it to anyone else.

Harry was just so. . .odd. At first, he often made her so upset that she wanted to yell at him -- to slap him across his face and tell him he was the rudest person she’d ever met. To say she understood why everyone spoke so highly of Edgar but said nothing but disappointed remarks when it came to him. But now. . .now those feelings come few and far in between, apart from feeding into his teasing and taunting her, she really could not think of the last time she was genuinely angry with him.

There were things he did, that on the outside seemed like he was a bossy prick, but beneath the surface, he was doing something for her. At least this is what Edith helped her discover when Y/N said she was confused by his bullying because it was typically accompanied by something that a bully would not do -- like caress her in some way, or have her sit and rest for a little while, or bring her two of her favorite type of cake. To agree to teach her how she could bring pleasure to someone that he loathed -- of course, she figured there was some reason unidentified to her as to why he would agree for his own enjoyment, but he was still helping. Still went out of his way to tell her she was doing well, to make her feel good, to teach her not to allow men to take advantage of her. And was kind to her during, even if he teased her, he called her sweet names and made sure that she felt good.

Lately, Harry was more kind than he was rude, and even in his rudeness, there was an underlying affection to his words. And it was beginning to make her feel things. . .things that she had not felt for anyone, not even Edgar. These emotions that swell in her felt more raw, like fresh skin beneath a peeling scab. They made her feel warm, and held, and cared for, even if it was confusing. . .even if it didn’t make sense to her. She didn’t understand it, but she liked how it felt, and she liked how she felt when she was with him, even when he has that waggish smile on his mouth that usually meant he was about to say something crass, or do something that might embarrass her.

But how could Y/N even begin to unpack all of that when she was so fucking tired. In the last week, it felt like everyone needed her to do everything -- three days in, they stopped even bothering with excuses as to why they could not finish the work themselves. From the moment she opened her eyes at 5AM, to the moment she finally got to close them the following night at 3AM, she was on her feet and working. Even with Harry as an addition to her nights, she prepped his bath, washed his hair, changed his linens, and was as brisk as she could to leave the room so she could start on her other duties. Or, well, not her duties, but the other’s duties. From laundry to meal prep, dusting to sweeping, cleaning the cracks between the stone flooring, helping the chimney sweeps, and even those who took care of the rooms in the west wing of the castle -- everyone needed her for something (plus another ball that was just a week or so away for Edgar's birthday, and once again she is meant to be embroidering another variation of the castle’s emblem on the corner of about 300 hundred handkerchiefs). And she did it because she always does it, but usually, there were little breaks in between. Usually, they weren’t so unrelenting. In the past five days, Y/N had maybe slept a total of 4-6 hours.

She was tired. . .so tired, in fact, that she hadn’t even realized Harry was yelling at her at first. Not when he stepped up to her in the servant’s quarters, with his hand clutching the hairpin he’d bought for her. But she had left that hidden beneath her pillow, hadn’t she? Y/N slept with it every night to keep it safe, and in the mornings where she thought someone might be in her room to clean she hid it beneath the mattress. How had he gotten that? The only other person who knew where she kept things special to her was Prince Edgar, and that was only because he’d asked where she kept an expensive handkerchief he’d given her once.

“--for you to try and fucking sell it? And avoiding me after the fact? Do you think I’m stupid, Chambermaid? That I don’t have a fucking brain?”

Y/N blinked at him, trying to wipe away the haziness around her vision, “Wait, what?” She shook her head, “What do you -- what do you mean?”

“What do I mean? You’re unbelievable,” he held the pin up in front of her face, “Why did a member of the court come to me saying a chambermaid by the name Y/N sold this to them so you could buy the next king a bloody gift?”

She held her hand to her forehead -- it throbbed just beneath her temple, “That -- I never did that!” She protested, shaking her head again, “Why would I do that? Who told you that?”

“Does it matter who fucking told me? How did they have it then?”

This was too much -- too much! Someone stole it from her, and she hadn’t even realized that it had been stolen until right now. And for that, maybe she deserved to be scolded -- for not keeping track of such an expensive, pricey gift -- but not for selling it. Not for whatever this false story was that someone had fed him.

But her brain was too fuzzy to get it out properly, and he was so angry with her. Y/N had never seen him this seething mad, and it’s overwhelming. His upset is overwhelming, the fatigue is overwhelming, the other servants staring with wide eyes are overwhelming, and she just couldn’t handle it. It felt as if everything caught up with her once -- years of doing triple the work of one person, day-in-and-day-out, no matter the task, no matter who was asking her.

All of it rushed in, swung its fist, and knocked her out cold.

. . .

Harry should have known.

It should have been obvious what was happening, yet for someone who claims to be incredibly perceptive, Harry hadn’t even realized. He’d simply credited how infrequently he was seeing Y/N in the past week to increased duties now that another ball had been planned for the upcoming week, to celebrate Edgar’s birthday. It would make sense that Y/N would have to be active in taking care of the duties that come with the event tacked onto what she already had to accomplish in a day. It would also make sense that she would want to be active in the planning because it was Edgar’s birthday after all, and she had feelings for him. . .no matter how much Harry hated that.

But in comparison to the last ball, it seemed she was doing much, much more. Then, on top of that, she looked tired -- she always seemed sleepy, but she looked tired when he stormed up to her. Like she was teetering on the edge of falling asleep as she was standing.

And he should have known that Y/N wouldn’t do something like that -- wouldn’t sell something that he gave to her as a gift. This was the same person who held the new smock to her cheek going on about how grateful she was to him for something as simple as a grey piece of clothing. Despite her reluctance to accept the hairpin, she had still marveled at it, still thanked him and smiled so brightly, and promised to become worthy enough to be deserving of a gift like it. That certainly doesn’t sound like someone who would have gone out of their way to sell that very same gift.

All of this makes sense now, when he thinks about it constructively and slowly, and not in a flurry of emotion after a woman of the court made her way up to him with the hairpin between her fingers, “Prince Harry,” she had said, her face sullen, like she was about to share something with him that she felt bad for, “A chambermaid by the name Y/N -- she was going around trying to sell this to get Prince Edgar a gift for his birthday. I had bought it because I felt bad for the poor girl, but I soon found out that you were the one who purchased this. I fear she may have stolen it from you.”

Now, when he thinks about that in even more critical detail, how would that woman have known Harry was the one to have purchased it if Y/N had not been advertising the fact? And she was not one to flaunt her things or make a spectacle of herself, nor was she one to really speak to members of the court (“They all treat me worse than the actual royalty do,” she’d told him one day).

At the time, however, it had seemed perfectly reasonable, and above all else, Harry had been hurt. It was stupid -- he knew it was stupid, and he knew he probably couldn’t blame any sort of possessive nature on him for feeling as hurt by this as he did. He understood their relationship was nothing more than what it was, but Harry had started to consider Y/N something of a friend to him, and friends don’t do that. Friends don’t sell gifts given to them to random people to buy a gift for the person the gift giver hated. But she loved Edgar -- she wanted to be with him more than anything didn’t she? Every moment spent with Harry she probably wished she’d been spending with him.

So he went, and he snapped, and he yelled, and she looked so confused. . .god, thinking about how her face had seemed so alarmed, and exhausted, and upset as she denied it. He should have listened right away -- he should have taken her back to his chambers, laid her on the bed, and let her sleep, only waking her to eat and wee, then asked her about what happened after she was well-rested. He could have pet her hair from her face, apologized for thinking that she’d done something like that, and let her sleep a little more. Then punish the bastards who had lied to his face.

But he didn’t do that. No, he yelled at her instead, and she fell into him, heavy and limp, scaring the hell out of him. He’d called for help, told one of the servants to go fetch the physician immediately, “Run!” He’d shouted when he decided the man was not going fast enough. Harry lowered her to the ground, laid her head on his thighs, and checked her pulse and breathing. Relief rushed him when he realized her pulse still thudded against his fingers, and the warmth of her breath hit his fingers, but still, he was inconceivably worried. He hadn’t even let the physician or the guards be the one to move her somewhere more comfortable, away from the hustle and bustle of the hall. Harry carried her to her room, laid her atop of her bed, and stood at her side as the physician did his work-up. It was in the middle of it all that one of the servants -- Edith, Harry recalls -- pops into the room, looking just as upset, flustered, and worried as Harry feels.

“I knew this would happen!” She exclaimed, shaking her head, “They were working her too hard and they were doing it on purpose! I told them to fuck off, but they wouldn’t listen, and now she’s -- she’s done this before, y’know? It was a few years ago, and ever since she’s been better at pacing herself, but they were all being so rotten for some reason.”

When they got her to slow down, and calmly tell them what had led up to this point, Harry had felt even worse. Of course, they had her doing their work for them. Everyone used her so often and without care, it did not matter to them if she slept as long as they did. It disgusted Harry to no end, how they could take someone’s kindness and willingness to help and throw it back in their face. It was pathetic, through and through.

Once Harry knew Y/N was okay, that she only needed to rest, and the physician would do frequent rounds on her (not only at Harry’s request, but because he liked Y/N -- apparently she is usually the one to clean his study, and he’s in there often, so they speak a lot), he decided he would find the truth before coming back to stay at her side.

He found the woman who had told him the false story, lounging in a boudoir with several other women surrounding her. They all seemed startled by his arrival, sitting up straighter in their seats, eyes darting to the one who had lied to him. There was tension lying thick in the room, so he knew that they knew, and Harry was in no mood for petty games or stupid stories.

“You,” he pointed out the one with ginger hair, dressed in a pink gown, now sitting upright in the velvet tufted armchair, “Who told you to lie to me?”

She furrowed her brows, “Pardon me? What lie are you speaking of?”

“The chambermaid called Y/N and the hairpin,” he watched as she shifted uncomfortably on the seat, “Who gave you the hairpin and told you to lie to me?”

“Sir, truly, nobody gave me the hairpin, she sold it to me!” The woman had denied it, shaking her head so quickly that the jewels in her own hair clicked together soundly with the movement, “I would not tell a lie to you, Your Highness.”

Harry glared at her, his face set like stone, “Do not play me for a fool. Either you tell me who gave you that hairpin, or I banish you from the castle and exile you from the village. Would you like that instead?”

At the threat, her eyes go wide, and she shakes her head again, opening and closing her mouth multiple times similar to a fish, until she rushes with reddened cheeks to say, “You can’t -- you can’t do that.”

“Do you want to bet your life on it?”

She spits it out almost instantly, rushing, looking wildly between him and the others in the room as she tried to justify herself -- like Harry might still banish her just for the hell of it. “He told me -- he gave it to me and told me what to say! It was him, please don’t -- I wouldn’t have lied to you or done such a thing had it not been the next king telling me to do it.” A grimace takes her face, as she goes on to say, “It was. . .Prince Edgar -- he was the one who told me to do it.”

Edgar?

That fucking piece of shit.

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