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How to Use Royal Free Images and PNGs to Enhance Your Social Media Posts

Visuals are essential for drawing in viewers and effectively communicating ideas in the dynamic realm of social media. Whether you run a small business or are an experienced marketer, using PNGs and royal free images can greatly improve the quality of your social media postings. We’ll look at where to get these tools and how to use them to make visually appealing and interesting material in this blog.

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Happy 4 year anniversary, Persona 5 Royal!

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Red, White & Royal Blue: Collector's Edition Henry PoV bonus chapter by Casey Mcquiston.

(transcribed from the page pictures posted)

This is the coda to the end of the book, so don't read it if you haven't read the book first. Sadly, the Collector's Edition doesn't seem to be available on Kindle so. Arrrr matey.

Download link for file at the end.

....

HENRY

“I am not asking you to believe in it, or even to like it,” Henry says stonily. It’s been a long morning already. He is beginning to perspire. “I am simply asking you to show a modicum of respect.”

“To–to your quiche?”

“Yes. To my quiche.”

Bea puts down her tape gun and wipes her eyes. “Pez!”

“Yes?”

“Henry says he’s going to make us a quiche!”

Pez’s squawk of a laugh bounces down the stairs. “Pull the other one!”

“I make them all the time for Alex,” Henry insists. “They are perfectly edible.”

“So, when you promised us breakfast if we got up early to help you.” Bea says, “you meant that you were going to make us breakfast?”

“Yes!” Henry says hotly. “Stop laughing!”

“I’m sorry!” Bea says. “It’s only that...well, Henry, the last time you cooked breakfast for me, you were twelve and you put a sausage in the microwave until it exploded.”

“That was your idea! And it’s been ages since then! I’ve studied, all right? I’m quite good now. Those pictures I send the group chat aren’t just for show.”

“Oh, aren’t they?” Bea says rudely, as if his incredibly generous offer to cook her a shallot-and-thyme quiche with mushrooms from the farmer’s market means nothing at all. As if he’s lived in this house for five entire years without learning to use its kitchen.

Perhaps if their lives weren’t so chaotic, if Henry weren’t flying out of New York every time Bea had a spare moment to fly in, he could have proven this to her earlier. But Pez, who lives mostly in the city now and visits so frequently he’s earned his own Secret Service code name (Cardinal, since Henry is Bishop), should know better.

“Percy Okonjo,” Henry says as Pez joins them, “you were here last weekend when I made mince pie. You loved it.”

“Did I?” Pez wonders aloud, with an annoyingly Bea-like lilt.

“Look at this apron!” Henry gestures to himself and the navy blue apron he’s wearing. Alex gave it to him for his birthday last year. “Would a man who can’t make a quiche have an apron like this? It’s monogrammed.”

“You’re royalty, babes,” Pez points out. “Everything you own is monogrammed.”

From the pocket of his serious-home-cook apron, his phone buzzes. Reinforcements. The FaceTime connects, and Alex says, “Good morning, love of my li–”

“Alex,” Henry interrupts, “tell them about my quiches.”

Alex pushes up his sunglasses and frowns into the camera. He looks so lovely with his faded T-shirt and jean jacket and shaggy hair. Pure American heartthrob, might as well have a cowboy hat on. Henry never does tire of it.

“Sorry?”

“Bea and Pez don’t believe I can make a quiche.”

“What? Have they seen your apron?”

“That’s what I said!”

“Henry’s quiches are great!” Alex says loudly, to the kitchen at large. “I almost never find shells in them!”

That sets Bea and Pez off again. On the screen, Alex’s face crinkles into laughter.

“Thank you very much, Alex, you’ve been a tremendous help,” Henry groans. “How are things? Florist this morning, wasn’t it?”

“Just finishing up.” Alex says with a grin. “Final approvals done. Everything looks great.”

With only one week until moving day and two until the wedding, it made sense to divide and conquer. Henry agreed to stay in New York and finish packing up the brownstone with help from Bea and Pez, while Alex, June, and Nora are ticking off the last of their checklists in Texas.

“Of all the surprises that wedding planning has brought us,” Henry says, “your ability to micromanage floral arrangements has certainly been...one of them.”

“You know I love to curate a vibe,” Alex says.

“That you do,” Henry agrees. “Where are the girls?”

“Getting donuts,” Pez answers before Alex can. He holds up his phone, open to a photo of June blowing a kiss while Nora fellates an éclair.

“Donuts!” Bea says. “Now there’s an idea!”

They spend the rest of the day drowning in cardboard boxes and bin liners, packing everything but the furniture and the downstairs television. Pez reminds him once an hour that they could pay someone to do this, but Bea is stubborn, and Henry is reluctant to let anyone else wade into all the intimate trappings of his and Alex’s life. It was bad enough explaining the contents of the trick drawer in their dresser to Pez, much less some mover he’s never met.

When it’s done, Bea puts A Knight’s Tale on in the living room and promptly falls asleep on Pez’s lap. Pez passes out too, but Henry stays awake, because Heath Ledger deserves an audience. And because he knows if he doesn't wake Bea and move her to the guest bedroom, he'll have to hear about her back spasms in the morning.

David hops up beside him on the loveseat, and Henry strokes the top of his snout until his little body relaxes into Henry's side.

"Nervous old boy," Henry hums. It still does seem like the ultimate irony that the dog he adopted for emotional support has anxiety. David has grown more and more worried all week, as more and more of his home disappeared into boxes. "We won't leave you, I promise."

The brownstone has been a good house for them. Sturdy brick walls, neighbors that actually let them be. Henry has loved it more than he ever loved Kensington, or at least as much as he loved Kensington when his parents both lived there too. Some mornings, when he comes downstairs to find Alex with the coffeepot and the kettle already on, he feels the way he did when his family all slept under one roof. This roof is quite a bit smaller than that one, but the feeling isn't.

So, perhaps David hasn't got entirely the wrong idea. It is hard to let the place go. For the past month, Alex has kept asking Henry why he's staring, and the truth is that he's been committing to memory exactly how Alex looks in every room. How the bannister fits in his hand, the place on the foyer wall where he always braces himself to pull on his shoes.

Everything that's happened in the past five years has happened, at least in part, inside this house.

…

It's seven months after Alex's mother's second inauguration, and Henry is wishing he had never even heard the word "credenza." Then he wouldn't have to decide where to put one. Alex is arriving in half an hour to help him move it, but Henry still doesn't know where. Across from the fireplace, perhaps? But what if he wants to put a sofa there? Does he want a regular sofa, or a sectional? Should it go upstairs, in his study? Or should he leave room for bookcases?

He longs to be back on a beach, sipping something from a pineapple.

It’s been a long, glorious summer since Alex packed up his White House bedroom, called Henry, and asked, "Do you want to get the fuck off the continent?" They did Dubai first, then Lagos. Rio, for old time's sake. Buenos Aires, paper lanterns in moonlight and Alex flirting with the bartender for free drinks. June through August became a lovely blur: Alex asleep against his shoulder on the plane, Alex throwing his Portuguese phrase book out the window of a speeding car, sand in unmentionable places, Alex Alex Alex. Endless runways and half-arsed disguises, swimsuits that got smaller and smaller until they simply didn't wear them anymore. Falling in love, the sequel, with fresh suntans and all the time in the world.

And now here they are in Park Slope, where Alex is renting the second floor of a brownstone two blocks from Henry's.

It's practical, they agreed, to live in the same neighborhood before they live at the same address. They've scarcely gotten a chance to date the normal way yet– if it can be called "normal" when their combined security teams are headquartered in an empty apartment down the street. Still, Henry wants this to last.

They've sprinted headlong into everything so far, but now he wants move slowly, in delicious increments. He wants to savor nights, minutes, firsts, to covet them and then let them dissolve on his tongue, like the sugar cubes he snuck off his gran's filigreed tea trays when he was small. He wants a life.

He wants someone to tell him where to put this damned credenza.

It's a vintage Broyhill Brasilia piece, walnut with clever brass drawer pulls. June helped him pick it out when she was in town with meeting her editor, but she never gave him any advice on where it should go. He hasn't ever been allowed to decide where furniture should go before.

So, it’s...there, in the center of the empty living room, the first piece in the entire house.

“Maybe you could start with a rug or two,” says Alex from the foyer.

Henry turns to find him with his keys in one hand and a paper bag in the other, smiling in a beam of mid-morning light, and, ah. Yes. There it is. That sweet, sharp gasp of nerves. The half second when he forgets how to use his mouth. If he knows nothing else, at least one certainty remains, which is that seeing Alex Claremont-Diaz in the flesh will always do this to him.

Alex in a photo is handsome, but Alex in life is a symphony. He’s refracted light with a cherry cola chaser. He’s got a Fibonacci jawline and a troublemaker smile and thick forearms built for posing in doorways with his sleeves rolled and thumbing corks out of champagne bottles. The first time Henry ever told Pez about him, he said, “God, but he’s lethal.” It’s only worse once you get to know him.

“Weird place for a credenza,” Alex comments. He kisses Henry’s cheek, then passes him a warm bundle wrapped in parchment paper. “Hope you like sausage-egg-and-cheese.”

“I don’t know where to put it.”

“Sandwich goes in your mouth, typically.”

“The credenza.”

“Ohhh, right,” Alex says, pretending to have just caught on. He winks. Henry sighs theatrically but accepts a second kiss, on the lips this time. “Why don’t you just put it right here?”

He points to his left, where a blank wall stretches from the front door to the foot of the stairs. It does, upon closer inspection, appear to be the exact right size.

“Oh,” Henry says.

This is where they overlap. Where he ends and Alex begins. Great gooey puddle of feelings, meet course of action; endless burning energy, meet point of focus. Agonies, meet your most obvious, most natural, most inevitable conclusions. It’s frightening sometimes for a person like Henry, who has spent his entire life pedaling his agonies about like baguettes in a posh little bicycle basket. What is he to do with them now?

Yes," Henry concedes, "I suppose I could," and Alex laughs.

...

It's the summer of 2022. Henry has opened his third shelter, and Alex has just finished bulldozing his first year at NYU Law.

A few boxes of books still wait at Alex's place, but otherwise, he lives in Henry's brownstone now. Their brownstone. A UT pennant beside a Chelsea scarf on the living room wall. A fridge full of Topo Chico and Bulmers. Two pairs of shoes by the front door, brown Barker derbies and Reebok trainers. Nobody could mistake it for anyone else's.

It's their first Chore Sunday (Alex's idea), and Henry has put the last of the laundry in the dryer. He's in the kitchen doorway, watching Alex unload the dishwasher.

Alex once told Henry the type of man he's typically attracted to: tall, broad-shouldered, pretty eyes, a little haunted. Bit of attitude and a smile that makes you curious. For Henry, it's never been so simple. He liked boys in his classes because they bothered with the assigned readings and fancied one of Philip's awful Eton friends because he could sail and smelled of cinnamon. The only thing all his Oxford boys had in common was that they didn't know how to speak to him. He's never had a type, and he's always been sure Alex was singular, anyway. Alex is unlike anyone he's ever met before or since.

But here, now, watching Alex bend to remove a salad bowl from the bottom rack, he is confronted with the hard truth. All those boys did, actually, share one trait.

"Are you gonna help me with this," Alex says without even an investigatory glance over his shoulder, "or are you just gonna keep staring at my ass?"

...

It’s Christmas 2022, their first since Alex officially moved in, and Henry is going to make a yule log if it kills him.

Perhaps he’s been too ambitious. He’s rather new to all. Growing up, he was rarely permitted in the kitchens, and he concentrated his uni diet on fast food and takeaway. He can make toast and boil an egg, and he’s got a deft hand with the coffee percolator and a gin swizzle from time to time. He knows about food– the finest foods, actually, he’s yet to meet an Englishman who can select a better brie– but he never learned to cook, until recently.

Recently, as in when Alex became too fanatically involved in his second-year coursework to remember to feed himself.

It began with force-feeding Alex a bacon butty twice a week. Henry’s arms suffered little constellations of grease burns, but bacon was easy. And those faded, so they didn’t deter him for long. Curiosity piqued, he taught himself the basics of pasta, how one can simmer almost anything with garlic and onion and butter and it will taste good over noodles. It bolstered his confidence enough to truly commit, and now, between hours at the shelters and video calls with his mum, he watches tutorial after tutorial on how to brown butter and roast chicken. Only half of what he makes turns out the color it’s meant to, but he loves it.

He loves walking to the market on the corner and hunting down specific ingredients from the family recipes June sends him. In fact, it’s become such a regular pastime that the paparazzi have cottoned on, which is why his mother finally forced his security team to hire an actual body double. Now some bloke named Angus with his height and build and nearly the same face goes on diversionary strolls while Henry peruses jarred chilies.

With all his independent studying, he was certain he could manage a dessert. He wanted to do something impressive, since they’ve convinced their families to let them host Christmas dinner. Only, his sponge has gone all wrong, and if he’s learned anything from Bake Off, he knows it’s not meant to have cracked in five places when he tried to roll it up. Paul Hollywood would have him pilloried.

“Think you might’ve left it in too long?” Oscar asks from across the kitchen island. He’s wearing his white elephant prize, a sweatshirt airbrushed with the slogan YOU CAN’T SPELL CONSTITUTION WITHOUT TITS. Inexplicably, Henry’s own mother brought that one. “Lookin’ kinda dry there.”

“I appreciate that you are trying to be helpful,” Henry enunciates, “but if you say one more word I may start crying, and then we’ll both lose some respect for me.”

Later, when Pez has persuaded him to “call it, mate, put it out of its misery,” he carries his disgraced platter of ganache and cake and marzipan out into the living room and lets everyone go at it with spoons. The house feels full to bursting, and not just because of the Christmas crackers. There are all three of Alex’s parents, Henry’s mum, June and Nora, Bea and Pez, Shaan and Zahra on speakerphone, occasionally an awkward Philip and Martha via FaceTime, and, because he had nowhere else to go for the holiday, Angus.

(“I don’t like him,” Alex muttered when Henry suggested inviting his own body double to Christmas dinner.

“Why not?”

“Because he looks exactly like you, but I find him deeply unattractive, and that freaks me out.”)

Ellen tells everyone the story of the year Alex got his first real bike for Christmas and knocked out his two front teeth by Boxing Day, which prompts Catherine to recite eight-year-old Henry’s letter to Father Christmas, in which he requested a leather-bound journal and a holiday to East Wittering so he could gaze at the sea. Bea pushes Henry behind the upright piano, and he takes requests for an hour. It only ends when Pez rewrites half the lyrics to “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” to be about his own lactose intolerance. No one wants to follow “tidings of Lactaid and soy.”

After the third round of mulled wine, when Alex’s parents have called their drivers and his mum has retired to the guest room, June and Nora find themselves under the mistletoe. Everyone whoops and whistles until Nora finally pulls June in by her Christmas-light necklace and kisses her to a round of applause. June's cheeks turn red, but she looks pleased as anything.

"I can't believe it took this long for y'all to finally kiss." Alex says, to which Pez bursts into laughter. "What?"

"Alex," he says fondly. He drains his glass and pecks Alex on the forehead. "You gorgeous, stupid little turnip."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Pez just shakes his head and strolls off to the kitchen.

"Wait," Alex says.

He frowns, like he does when he's trying to recall something incredibly minute and specific from his torts textbook. Then, suddenly, a light goes on, and his own mug is clunking on the lamp table, and he's running off after Pez.

"Pez, what's that supposed to mean?"

...

It's late morning the summer before Alex's last year of law school, 2023, and Alex is the first word out of Henry's mouth.

Truthfully, that's how he begins most mornings. On a Monday morning five time zones away, "Alex" pitched low to the screen of his phone. On a Friday when Alex's early lecture is cancelled, "Alex" in F major, muffled in the pillow as his body moves and the day stretches out before them. Half three the night before an exam, a hoarse "Alex," followed by, "turn the bloody light off and come to bed."

This morning, it's because David is barking at the door. A rainstorm is brewing, and if jet lag didn't have Henry dead under the bedclothes, the gray gloom would. Alex was the one who surfaced from sleep half an hour ago and blearily ordered three entire pancake breakfasts from some 24-hour diner a few neighborhoods over. He should have to get up and answer the door.

“Alex.” Henry mumbles, turning over.

Alex has got the quilt tugged up so high he’s only a shock of wild curls on white linens.

“Nnnghh,” Alex groans from the depths.

“Breakfast is here,” Henry says. The doorbell helpfully rings again. David howls.

Alex’s face appears, pouting. There’s a crease from the pillow down one of his cheekbones, a comet’s tail in a constellation of freckles. “Can you get it?”

Henry rolls his eyes but smiles. Inevitable.

He drags himself out of bed and pulls on the joggers and hoodie from last night’s flight. It’s not until he feels the breeze on his ankles as he descends the stairs that he realizes they’re Alex’s, not his.

On their doorstep, a pink-haired delivery girl is looking bored under her bicycle helmet.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Henry says. He fishes a crumpled bill out of Alex’s pocket. “For your trouble.”

The girl pulls a face.

“Got any real money?” she asks. Her accent reminds him a bit of Alex’s mum.

He blinks down at her hand, which is holding a twenty-pound note. “Ah. Sorry again. Er.” He snatches his wallet out of the bowl on the credenza and gives her all the American dollars he has.

“She’s gone, Davey,” Henry says afterward to David, who’s now fretfully circling the living room. “You’ve protected us from another fearsome home invader. Well done.”

He lets David out into the back garden to do his business, then carries the food upstairs. Shockingly, Alex is awake and propped up against the headboard.

“I’m getting too old for red-eye flights,” Alex says, rubbing his eyes.

“Love, you’re twenty-five,” Henry reminds him. He deposits the bag on the nightstand, and Alex wastes no time tearing through the plastic and tucking in to his breakfast. “And I’m older than you.”

“Yes, you are. But like... I get why we have to go to Philip’s kids’ christenings. The cousins, though?” He sets to work smothering his pancakes in syrup. “I mean, at least my cousins would stack their baptisms. One and done, baby.”

Henry opens his mouth, prepared to answer with one of a thousand things. That the tabloids will have even more of a field day than usual if he stops doing his chores, that there will always be a church dedication or a swan upping or an appointment for a top hat fitting, that he’ll always be obligated to have one foot in London and one day they’ll have to choose where to settle down. It’s far from the first time they’ve had this conversation.

But then Alex shovels a massive bite of pancakes into his mouth and says, “Anyway, I love you. Do you wanna have June and Nora over tomorrow? We can play Mario Party again. I wanna see them get in a fistfight. Oh, and my dad’s in town next week, and he said to tell you he’s bringing that book you asked about–”

And that’s when Henry knows: He doesn’t ever want to go back.

...

It’s the end of spring 2024, and Henry is not eavesdropping, per se. He excused himself to answer a call from Shaan, which really could not be avoided. Shaan has taken to his new life as a househusband with predictable aplomb, and most of his calls these days involve Henry getting to talk to a baby who is clearly destined to become prime minister. He simply can’t send that to voicemail.

It’s the first time they’ve had room in the schedule for his mother to visit since Alex accepted his law job, which Henry understands very little about but has been assured is the most strategic next step for Alex’s career long game. When Henry left the room, Alex was still trying to explain it to Catherine. It all sounds terribly prestigious.

He is just returning to the sitting room with a fresh pot of tea when he hears his name from around the corner.

“–and the next morning Henry and Arthur vanished,” his mother is saying, “and when Uncle Algie called, I told him that Henry couldn’t go on the annual pheasant hunt because he was violently ill, but actually Arthur had taken him to Rome for two weeks on the set of that go on ridiculous car heist film he was working on, the one with, oh, what’s his name–“

“Jason Statham,” Alex says promptly, through wheezing laughter.

“That’s the one!”

“Loved that movie,” Alex says. “I can’t believe Henry got to be on set.”

“It was all Arthur’s idea, but he was right to do it. Uncle Algie is a dreadful bore, and Henry despises his son. Guilford. Did you meet Guilford at the wedding?”

“Henry made sure I avoided it.”

“Yes, that’s for the best,” Catherine says daintily. “He has matured into an absolute dickhead.”

Henry wishes he was in the room to see the way Alex sputters out, “Oh my God.” Alex always forgets that Catherine went to uni and married a commoner from Sheffield.

And then Alex sighs and says, “When Henry and I get married–”

Henry manages to recover the teapot before he drops it.

It’s not a surprise to hear Alex mention marriage. They’ve been sorting it out for years: political logistics and Alex’s child-of-divorce anxiety and a thousand questions about a royal wedding neither of them actually wants to have. He’s already bought an engagement ring, even, and judging by how tetchy Alex gets whenever Henry tries to put his underwear away for him, he’s not the only one.

But it is the first time he’s heard Alex mention it to his mother. He dropped it so casually, so matter-of-factly, as if he’s been talking to her about marrying Henry for years. Henry supposes it’s possible he has been. Is this why Alex had tea with her in London last month and told Henry he wasn’t invited? Have they been conspiring?

They’re discussing hypothetical guest lists now, which cousins secretly hate one another and who wore an inappropriately large fascinator to whose birthday tea, but Henry isn’t listening anymore. He’s thinking of a cafe table in Rome, his dad waving over a second round of gelato.

In his memory, he’s nine years old, and his father is saying, Whoever you marry, Henry, make sure they think your mum is a laugh, because she is. She really is.

He clears his throat and finally rounds the corner. “Tea, anyone?”

...

It’s 2024, and nobody knows they’re engaged.

Granted, they’ve only been engaged for about three hours, but Henry is curious to see how long they can go. It feels nice to keep a secret that doesn’t have to be a secret. It’s more that they’re keeping it like a pet, or something especially beautiful from the garden that they’ve coaxed into a jar.

A record is spinning on the turntable, one of Alex’s, maybe the Joni Mitchell he borrowed from Bea. They’ve shoved their phones under the couch cushions and ordered a pizza the size of the moon, and now they’re sitting in the center of the living room floor, demolishing it. They kiss, then eat more pizza, then get distracted kissing again. Henry licks a streak of pepperoni grease from Alex’s forearm, which is a fantasy he didn’t know he had until he’s living it. They tangle up on the rug, and Henry decides he’ll take Alex sailing next weekend, or even out to the edge of the river, just to see him against a horizon.

Four-nearly-five years in, the main thing he’s learned is that Alex is a world without end. All Henry wants is to go on with him forever. To keep finding new favorite parts, to keep turning things over and studying their soft bellies and finding the best bits.

So, he will.

...

It snows on New Year’s Eve 2024. Alex looks out the window and shrugs off his coat.

The Young America Gala may be no longer, but Nora, June, and Pez aren’t to be stopped from throwing a New Year’s party, especially now that Pez has gotten his own part-time flat in the city. They’re the three fates of New York City’s holiday social circuit: birth (June, managing invitations), life (Pez, topless), and death (Nora, also topless).

“What if,” Alex says, turning to Henry on the foot of the stairs, “we don’t go to the party?”

“Nora will murder me,” Henry says. “She told me she’s not afraid to do that now that I’ve given up my title.”

“Murder is still a crime even if you’re not officially a prince.”

“Yes, but she said, quote,” he puts on his best American accent, “They can’t put me in the Tower anymore. Who’s gonna arrest me now? Mr. Bean?”

“Why don’t we just send Angus? It’s dark. Maybe she won’t notice.”

“Where’s your double, then?”

“We live in New York, I’m sure I can find a male model somewhere.”

“As always, sounding the very bass string of humility.”

“Is that fucking Shakespeare?”

“Henry IV.”

“I’m gonna give you a wedgie, you fucking nerd.”

In the end, it doesn’t take much to convince Henry to stay in. Lately, it never does. Alex texts June a flimsy excuse, and they toe off their shoes and relax out of their button-downs.

Henry does have to admit he’s exhausted, in the way that one only can be on the last day of the year, when every other day of the year piles way up behind it. It’s been a big one: Alex’s first law job, the endless press about Henry’s decision to surrender his title, the engagement, Bea’s wedding, the incident with the croquet mallets and the Dutch ambassador at Bea's wedding.

Sometimes Alex jokes that they squeezed it all into one calendar year because no headline can stick if there's another next week, but it's only half a joke. They've been bone-tired for months.

"I'm surprised you're the one who wants to stay home," Henry says. "I remember a young lothario who lived to ruin people's lives on New Year's Eve."

"Ruin?" Alex says. "That's not how I remember it."

"It certainly felt that way at the time."

They drift to the kitchen, past all the traces of the year. The dried flowers, the new scuffs on the floorboards. The box of bound manuscripts of Henry's first finished poetry-ish short-fiction-ish essay-ish collection. The holiday cards from senators and diplomats and old Texas friends, topped off with Alex's favorite of Rafael Luna and his astonishingly fit partner in matching Christmas jumpers. Henry would think Raf had been forced into it if it hadn't come with a case of beer and a note of thanks for letting him stay over the last time he visited Alex and had one too many tequila shots at drag bingo.

Alex withdraws a bottle of Clicquot from the refrigerator and says, "We're not washed, are we?"

“We're aging," Henry points out.

"That's right," Alex says, eyes immediately sparking at the opportunity. Henry preemptively sighs. "You're almost thirty."

"Almost twenty-eight is not almost thirty."

"It basically is. You're old. You'll be thirty a whole year before me. You'll be popping antacids and I'll be in the club, popping my p-"

"You're not even in the club now."

"I could be, I'm just choosing not to, because I don't want to deal with the snow. That's not aging, it's growth."

He slides Henry a glass of champagne and adds, "It's probably time for us to start talking about what's on your Do Before Thirty list, huh?"

Henry takes the glass and chooses going with Alex's bit over pointing out that he's entering his late twenties, not dying.

“I’ve done quite well on that front so far, actually,” he says. “Wrote a book. Started a nonprofit. Engaged to the love of my life.”

“Involved in an international sex scandal.”

“Shook the hands of all five Spice Girls.”

“Best dressed at the Met Gala.”

“Cried in the Water Lilies room at the MOMA.”

“Grew your hair out, then cut it all off.“

“Taught myself to make beef Wellington.”

“That one’s, uh, still in progress,” Alex hedges. Henry gives him an affronted look. “But, yeah! Definitely. And you got really good at scones.”

“That I did.”

“Right,” Alex agrees. “So what’s left? Streaking? Dropping acid? Having sex on our kitchen island?”

Henry takes a moment with that one.

“Having sex on our kitchen island?”

When the clock strikes the new year, the house is quiet. The timer on the light over the front stoop clicks off. The champagne bottle rests between two glasses on the edge of the sink, spent and sticky around the rim, a single soggy strawberry at the bottom of each flute. Miles out from their apartment, fireworks fight the snow over the East River, but in their kitchen in Park Slope, the only sounds are the two of them.

Henry, almost twenty-eight, presses his warm body to the cool marble and gets his midnight kiss.

...

“Do you know what today is?” Alex asks on a lukewarm September.

It’s 2025. He’s in the doorway of Henry’s study, where Henry has been all evening, answering emails.

“Hm? No.”

When Alex doesn’t immediately fill the silence, Henry looks up from his laptop screen.

“What is it?”

“Five years since the story broke,” Alex says.

It takes a moment for him to realize what story Alex means; there have been so many of them. But of course, he means that gigantic, terrible one. The one that changed their lives forever.

“Oh,” Henry says. He closes his laptop, leaning back in his chair and away from it. “Well. Hated that.”

“Yeah,” Alex agrees. “Zero out of ten. Would not do again.”

His tone is light and casual, but when he folds his arms across his chest, Henry can see his glasses in the front pocket of his flannel. It’s been months and months since the last time Alex didn’t feel confident enough to wear them.

For his part, Henry can remember much of that day, but not all of it. He remembers stirring sugar into his morning tea when Shaan walked in wearing an expression Henry had never seen before. He remembers Pez arriving like the cavalry in Gucci slippers, hustling Henry away from his handlers with the same graceful disdain he used to direct at Eton classmates who stared at them too much. He remembers Bea finding them in the music parlor and refusing to hear Henry’s apology, and he remembers Alex’s call and Alex’s arrival.

The funny part, though, is he can’t remember anything between Bea and Alex. He knows that Philip was involved, and there were stories on every news channel, and he spoke to his mother at some point. But the space in his memory where those hours belong is simply blank. His psychiatrist says it’s post-traumatic stress disorder, and Henry is inclined to agree, considering the two of them spent the entire following year recalibrating Henry’s anxiety and depression medication around the event.

Those hours will always be gone. There are things he will never get back.

Most of the time, though, when he thinks of that day, the second worst thing that's ever happened to him, he thinks of Alex's hand in his under a Buckingham Palace table. He remembers, clear as a bell, Alex's voice telling him they would survive it together. It happened to Alex too. It wasn't what they would have chosen, but it was what they received, and they've done their absolute bloody best with it.

He rises from his desk, crosses to the doorway, and gathers Alex up against his chest. Their size difference isn't that pronounced—Henry is taller but lean, Alex shorter but sturdy—but in moments like this, he's thankful for the way Alex's cheek perfectly aligns with the crook of his neck. He's grateful for how effortless it is to slip a kiss to Alex's temple.

Neither of them says anything else. It's all been said a thousand times, in speeches and through official statements and in the dark when it's only the two of them. It's enough to stand here in the center of the house, in the quiet, and let it hold their weight.

...

At the end of 2025, Henry has a bad day.

There's nothing specific that causes it. The days just happen like this sometimes, even with all the therapy and medication and supportive partnership and fulfilling creative projects in the world. There are other people, he supposes, who don't spend their lives waiting for the next bad day. He's had every bloody luxury but that one.

Alex comes home from work to find him curled up on the armchair in the study, staring out the window at the light-polluted night sky over the row of brownstones across the street.

“What are you doing?" Alex asks him.

"Looking for Orion," Henry deadpans.

Alex kneels on the rug in his tailored suit pants and rolled-up sleeves and rests his cheek on Henry's knee, the way he often does when Henry's in a mood. Henry's fingers slide into his curls. They've grown a bit longer in the past few months. Lately. Alex looks quite like he did when they met, except for the glasses and the stubble dusting his jaw.

“I’m tired of big law, “ Alex confesses. It would appear he’s in a mood too. “I know it’s only been a year and a half, but...I kind of hate it.”

Henry contemplates that, along with the dark circles around Alex’s eyes.

“You don’t have to do it, you know.” Henry tells him.

Alex looks at him like he did in that hotel room in Paris the first time they woke up together, like the only thing he knows for sure about what he’s being offered is that he wants it completely. It’s an intimidating look to receive, but it’s only ever improved Henry’s life in the end.

He kisses Henry’s knuckle, just below his ring.

“I have some ideas.”

...

In February 2026, a flu sweeps through Park Slope. Neither Alex nor Henry can agree on who gave it to whom first– Henry knows it was Alex, since he’s been up late consulting with his mum about a voting rights bill in Texas, and his immune system always suffers when he gets upset about Texas—but regardless, they’re trapped in the brownstone together for a week. At least Alex doesn’t have to work through his illness the way he usually does, since he resigned from his job last month.

Somewhere around day five, Henry realizes it’s the longest consecutive amount of time they’ve both been home in years. They always seem to be leaving or returning: rushing off to appearances, climbing out of security caravans in half-undone suits, meeting Cash at the curb at three in the morning with bags over their shoulders. It’s nice, in a way, to get reacquainted with this home they’ve built together.

While Alex naps, Henry paces the entire floorplan.

The first floor, with its long living room and the original beams and mantelpiece, which Henry had restored before he moved in, because he always has been precious about the history of things. Then the kitchen and the deep blue cabinets and the wide back window over the knotty pine dining table handed down from Alex's dad. Upstairs, on the second floor, the guest bedroom with all of his mum's preferred hand creams in the attached washroom and the sitting room with the shelf of swan figurines Pez started collecting years ago in a dramatic fit of June-related yearning. One more flight up to the top floor, with his study and Alex's office and the hall with their photo from Shaan and Zahra's wedding and, at the far end, their bedroom.

The bedroom is his favorite part of the house, and not only for the obvious reasons, no matter how much Alex tries to imply otherwise with suggestive eyebrows. He loves the high ceiling and the chipped plaster medallion of roses at the center. They picked out the bed together, and every morning that he wakes up in it, he gets to turn over and see Alex's loose pens and glasses wipes scattered atop the dresser and know that this, his life, is still real. Perhaps he likes the room best because it feels separated from every other part of the house, lifted up and bundled in, which is the first time he's ever been safe in a tower.

Most importantly, of all three levels of bay windows jutting from the redbrick front of the brownstone, only the one in the bedroom has a seat. They've filled it with velvet pillows and mossy green cushions, and once or twice a year, on one of their vanishingly rare slow days, Alex will climb in and fall asleep.

That's where he finds Alex when he eases into the room with a mug of soup in each hand. He recognizes the quilt wrapped around him: they slept under it in Alex's childhood twin bed the night Ellen won her second term, and then Alex crammed it into his suitcase and brought it back to Washington.

He stirs as Henry sets the mugs down on the dresser.

“Thanks,” he says in a hoarse voice.

Henry nudges in beside him, gingerly removing Alex's glasses from beneath his elbow before they get crushed.

"You know," Henry says, "I chose this house for the bay windows."

Alex blinks at him, fully awake now. "Really?"

"I thought you might like them. You always talked about the one you grew up with. Hoped they might make the place feel like home."

Alex smiles. "They do."

Henry looks at him in his quilt, sleep-mussed and flushed from fever and overdue for a shave, and he remembers that night in the yellow house in Austin. Before Alex led them back to his old bedroom, he peeled up the cushion in the living room window seat and showed Henry pages of elementary school scribbles still hidden there. And he told Henry that he thought once of hiding a picture there too, if only he'd had the nerve to tear it out of his sister's magazine.

Love, Henry has found, has a way of growing backward. You fall in love with a person in the present, and then every person you've ever been gets to fall in love with every past version of them. A sleep-deprived Georgetown freshman falls in love with an Oxford sophomore who's testing out undoing the top button of his shirts sometimes. A ruddy-cheeked teenager with his nose in a book loves a backtalking lacrosse captain. A boy comes home from school with perfect marks and sees a picture in a magazine, and the boy from the picture pauses on a palace staircase.

The crux of it is, he loves every version of Alex to ever sleep under that quilt. Everything else is mostly set dressing

"I'm having a thought," Henry says.

"Congratulations," Alex deadpans automatically. Then, "Tell me."

"This life we have here," Henry says. "This house. It's good, yeah?"

"Yeah, of course it is."

"But we could have a good life somewhere else too."

Alex frowns. "Like where?"

"Somewhere... farther from everything, maybe? Somewhere we could slow down, and things could be quieter, and you could do the work you want to do. I think I could use some time away from it all, honestly. Maybe I wouldn't even have to have a body double anymore."

Alex considers that for a long moment. They both know where Henry means, even if he doesn't say it. Besides New York and DC, and London on its best days, there's really only one place Alex would seriously consider living. They've joked about it before, but Henry's always thought it might be nice to spend a few years somewhere completely different than he's used to. A place where he could see the stars.

At long last, Alex sniffs and says, "You're gonna fire Angus? He was just starting to grow on me.”

...

“If you don't wake Bea up, you're gonna have to hear about her back spasms in the morning,” says a voice that is most certainly not Heath Ledger's.

Henry startles awake to find Alex leaning over his shoulder from behind the loveseat, curls everywhere. The room is dark, and the end credits are rolling.

"You're not home until tomorrow," Henry mumbles.

"Moved up my flight," Alex says. He's so close to Henry's face, he's gone a bit cross-eyed. His lips bounce off the tip of Henry's nose. "I missed you."

It's only been a few days, but the truth is Henry missed him too. He supposes he should be used to empty beds and time differences by now, especially when they began that way, but he suspects he'll never stop waiting at the door. You know what will be the best part of getting married?" Henry asks Alex.

"The line dancing."

"The way I won't have to miss you nearly as often."

Alex softens, then maneuvers himself over the armrest until he's draped across Henry's lap. David climbs on top of him and curls up on Alex's left buttock.

Letting go of the house has been hard, but this particular decision was easy, once they finally said it out loud. A gradual, careful withdrawal from public life, at least for a few years. They’ve given so much of themselves to the world and had the privilege of feeling a legacy take shape beneath them, but they need rest too.

It was June who convinced them, actually. Even now, there are certain things only June can say to Alex. Early in the spring, when she was finally transitioning out of her speechwriting job for Raf, she called Alex from Colorado and told him she was moving to New York to be closer to Nora and Pez, and she wanted to sublet the brownstone. When Alex pointed out that he was still living in it, she said, "We both know you've been looking at farmhouses in Austin for six months, it's time to shit or get off the pot."

(Henry loves his particular collection of Americans. They truly do say what's on their minds.)

The new house is beautiful. Henry's only seen it in person once, but the previous owner was a reclusive tech executive with shockingly good taste, so Architectural Digest featured it last year. He's had the article open in a tab on his phone for two months, and he scrolls through all those perfectly lit photos twice a day, getting high on possibilities. Lazy mornings in the wide sunroom, midnight dives in the lake. It's easy to imagine Alex mellowing into a brisket-smoking, tamale-rolling Texas dad out there, and it's just as easy to imagine them basking under cedar trees until their mid-thirties and then deciding they're ready for another round. The wonderful thing is, they can take their time either way.

It isn't a full release from their obligations, but it is the next step after formally relinquishing his title. More boundaries, more of their own rules about what they will and won't do. No royal wedding, but a private ceremony at the lake house and a honeymoon unpacking boxes. A job for Alex at a smaller firm where he can finally get his hands in the earth. A quieter life.

"You're right," Alex says. "You know what else is gonna be awesome about married-people life? We can have actual, real-life date nights. Just imagine it: free refills and bottomless chips and salsa."

"Oh, I've got another one," Henry says. “You can finally show me how to navigate an H-E-B."

“Baby, don’t talk dirty to me in front of company.”

“Please,” says a groggy voice from the couch.

“Hi, Bea.”

“Time’s it?”

“One in the morning.”

“Ugh.”

Grumbling and tugging a blanket around herself, Bea wakes Pez and the two of them head off to wash up before bed. The odds of Pez returning to the couch for the night or availing himself of their bed so that Alex has to sleep on the couch are just about even, based on six years of Pez falling asleep at their house. It’s a comfort to know that when they leave the brownstone and June moves in, Pez will still be making himself at home in it.

Downstairs, surrounded by boxes, Alex crawls out of Henry’s lap and slides a large shopping bag out from behind the loveseat. “I brought you something.” Alex says.

Inside the bag is a box made of the sort of heavy cardboard that augurs something expensive. He imagines Alex hurling his patched-up rough-ridden leather duffle into the overhead compartment of the airplane and then sliding this bag under the seat so carefully that there’s not even a crease in the paper.

He takes the lid off the box and unwraps layers of tissue paper to reveal a hat. A cowboy hat. It’s made of gorgeous, thick felt, with a cattleman crown and a satin lining. A nearly identical one has hung in Alex’s office since he moved in, though Alex’s is midnight black and this one is a warm, pale sand. Where Alex’s hatband has a small gold buckle, this one has a silver pin in the shape of an English rose.

“It’s a Stetson,” Alex says. When Henry looks up at him, his cheeks have darkened faintly. “I know it’s not really your thing, but you ride horses, and it’s kind of a big deal where I’m from to get your first Stetson, so I wanted to be the one to give it to you since you’re about to be an honorary Texan. You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want–“

“I love it,” Henry interrupts.

Alex pauses, then breaks out in a grin. “You do? I was afraid you’d think it was a joke.”

“It’s the least ridiculous hat I’ve ever been given,” Henry tells him. “It didn’t even come with a matching tailcoat.”

“Nah, but maybe we can get you some Wranglers,” Alex says.

“Some chaps, perhaps.”

“I just told you not to talk dirty to me.”

Henry laughs and kisses him over the open box, thinking of the next year of their lives. Sunday morning fry-ups, swimming holes, a wedding cake that doesn’t wind up on the floor. Tomorrow he needs to ask if Alex checked on the bakery while he was in Austin, and if they have any more packing tape, and whether Amy’s daughter has gotten her flower girl dress yet.

Tonight, though, Alex is home a day early, and the house is making all its soft, familiar night-time sounds around them. No one sees in through the windows. No one comes in through the gate.

“Henry,” says Alex.

“Alex,” says Henry.

“You and me,” Alex says.

“You and me,” Henry agrees.

End.

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[rxttenfish]

merfolk in general are just. horrible horrible polyglots. their brains are already hardwired for language and quick language acquisition that remains active all their lives, further helped by retaining a high neural plasticity for their long lives, and especially enjoy complex language and language-based play and problem solving. but they also tend to have a lot of their society arranged where there's often multiple different languages at play within the same area, and only really stops being so once you get into especially small villages that have below the merfolk norm for outside contact. every merfolk alive today knows at least two languages, but most of them know far more than that, especially because one of those two will be the common-technical language. its been standardized and wide-scale implemented across the merkingdom after their dominance, to help bridge the gap between these different languages, basically as a successful version of esperanto. but its a trade language, and is mostly used for information you might want to reach as many people as possible, such as laws or business dealings or public announcements or the like. most merfolk don't view it as and don't treat it as a language proper, and its not what they prefer to converse in if they have another choice, usually finding it pretty limiting and restrictive, which is why its called common-technical.

miranda, being a royal who is regularly in contact with many different people around the merkingdom and regularly expected to be fully able to converse with them to do her job, knows just. so many languages. i might be changing exactly how many soon, but last time i counted it was in the low teens. like its just a perfect storm of her brain being wired for swift language acquisition and having a job that requires it and a position that means shes constantly around people from all around the merkingdom. not to mention having to know english too, which isn't just not her first language, it's not even her fourth language.

meanwhile, aaravi knows english and a little bit of hindi, less because of her mother and moreso because of her nana... its not that her mother never used it with her, but she was. less focused on using it or teaching aaravi, let's say. nana mishra uses it a lot more and is more interested in teaching aaravi when she asks her, especially in the intermittent period after her mom died and nana mishra was able to come back into her life to help aaravi pick up the pieces (though not after aaravi kind of. got left on her own. for an unfortunate amount of time). its just also fallen by the wayside with aaravi's whole Everything Else and kind of having a hard time accepting her nana's help and kind of being terrified of her (of no fault of her nana's, aaravi's just. she's just really traumatized after Everything, alright. having someone try to offer her help afterwards, especially when aaravi's scared of getting singled out as half human and half monster, is just. it's not something she can bring herself to trust.)

[sawyarts]

Happy new year im still drawing 👑🐎

[ask-team-misfit]

[ in response to this ; @ask-the-royal-absol ]

Watching the five Rock-types move what must have been massive chunks of wall was impressive, for a few moments. Upon seeing how quickly it drained their strength and how exhausted they appeared after the fact, her amazement faded and became concern.

As they looked at her, she smiled down at them apologetically, as very familiar self-conscious feelings crept up in her.

After all, it wouldn't be the first time others went above and beyond because of her larger size.

[ ID: A grayscale bust drawing of Pikavee slightly angled away from the viewer towards the left. She's smiling nervously, and her eyes are closed. A few sweat drops are present on her face. Her ears are drooped down. Pikavee's appearance is as described here. End ID ]

Pikavee: "S-sorry for all the trouble… thank you so much. Even for someone as big as me, you're offering a room."

Her usual meek smile was more forced at the moment. It felt funny enough having spoke to King Flint, an actual king in the flesh. The closest thing back in Sciliva were celebrities; Pokemon famous enough to have scores of plushies made in their likeness.

She wondered if she were too casual with the Excadrill, with his officials, even. Should she have bowed? Addressed them in a special way?

All these would've-could've-should've thoughts only made her more nervous, and she was sticking out as is.

Little else to do but follow her assigned guides to her room. She trailed behind at a distance considerably more generous than usual, watching her feet quite a bit more than she would have otherwise; she soon became self-conscious over how hard she stepped even, despite her footfalls being quite soft in reality, being a cat-like Pokemon. Soft as a giant cat-like Pokemon could be, that is.

Now that she was thinking of King Flint, again his comment stuck out in her mind. About her parents.

[lesiasmadness]

Ok actual warm up sketches this time and some shading practice

[mamamouches]

man theres smth so funny abt the Wanderer vs Cyno bit in the 3.6 teaser bc in my brain they're like fighting over my primos bc it just HAD to be those two (my main and the one i tried rolling for) BDSJSKD 😭😭😭 more under the cut bc i rambled off to who knows where oops

LITERALLY when Cyno's banner was up in Windblume i REAAALLY wanted him to come home bc I didn't roll last time but i was like. on and off abt it bc YES I like Cyno & his funny jokes BUT at the same time I fear Nahida may rerun soon and i wanted to roll her so she can hangout w kuni!! 🥺

....Except I went and rolled anyway (oop) and HE NEVER CAME HOME. Probably bc Wanderer was sabotaging my rolls watching the entire time but it's fun to think every time i roll he's like. menacingly hovering behind Cyno like NO. >:(

(and then cut to them fighting in 3.6 like "LOOK THEY'RE WISHING FOR ME TO COME HOME" "NO THEY DON'T GO AWAY 💢💢" WHEEZES)

Now I'm at like. 73 rolls in and now that Nahida's coming soon so ig he really did make those rolls steer clear of anyone else (sorry Cyno, cya next rerun! 😔) funnily enough, he's still tryna get back to me bc i keep getting HIS artifact sets instead of the Nahida ones HAJSAHJASD BUT YEAH ty for reading hehe ✨

[labcoatsaresexy]

Book Covers for Raised by Wolves and Royal Flush

I finally got around to organizing my Calibre library, and since I just got a Kobo for xmas I thought I would create some covers for a few of my favorite fics: the amazing “Royal Flush” and “Raised by Wolves”, both by @astolat. Since they are from the same author and in the same fandom, I wanted to keep some connective threads between them. I hope both give nothing away while making total sense after you’ve read them!

Royal Flush - (AO3) Fonts: Cinzel, Cinzel Decorative. Stark Direwolf from DutchLion on DeviantArt; Lannister Lion from Imalune on DeviantArt. Other elements from Canva.

Raised By Wolves - (AO3) Font: Cinzel. Weirwood Tree art from PHATboyArt on DeviantArt. Other elements from Canva

[collecting--stardust]

Update: I got the green light from my parents (not without a bit of guilt trip which is understandable by my mom) but idk if it's worth it or not but I'm too egoist to back out now

[iholli]

when you feel so tired but you can't sleep.

In the span of two weeks my partner has left me, I've had to put to sleep my heart rat and his brother, I had to sell my beloved car, and I'm having to give up my own home. I'm desperately trying to get through the month so I can get back to my parents' before I completely break down but I'm struggling. Today when having to interact with my ex's mom it all came back to hit me again and reminded me how tired I really am.

The Mario franchise has been giving me a lot of comfort especially lately when I can't focus on packing and need to stay distracted but can't play any of my online games because my ex is active on them. I get on Tumblr and look through tags for hours, finding some happiness with my favorites after over ten years since I first played Mario Kart Wii. Especially Luigi and his ships-- it's been a lot of seratonin.

So I needed another distraction today and finally tried to draw again. I spent the last couple hours with one song on repeat trying to gain some comfort for my pain.

Thank you, Nintendo, and all the artists who've been providing art and writing that's been giving me reasons to smile in this absolute worst time of my life. and thank you to the friends who've been here to listen to my heartache and encourage me to keep going, and sharing more content with me, too 💚

and the tears come streaming down your face

when you lose something you can't replace

when you love someone but it goes to waste

could it be worse?

lights will guide you home

and ignite your bones

and I will try

to fix you

[vkelleyart]

“It’s the least ridiculous hat I’ve ever been given,” Henry tells him. “It doesn’t even come with a matching tailcoat.”

“Nah, but maybe we can get you some Wranglers,” Alex says.

“Some chaps, perhaps.”

“I just told you not to talk dirty to me.”

- RED WHITE & ROYAL BLUE [Collector’s Edition] by Casey McQuiston

This piece was commissioned by the generous and wonderful Jonathan L who won my contribution for the Latinx Kidlit Festival auction: a free commission of two characters! I was so happy to have an excuse to revisit Alex and Henry last month, and share the final image in time for ACD’s birthday!

This picture has some additional goodies for fans of the books—and movies. With Jonathan’s help, I’ve planted TWELVE Easter eggs in this picture; see if you can find them all!

Happy Birthday, ACD (and a happy belated birthday to HFMW)! 🎉🎂🤠

PS: This picture is protected by Nightshade, which accounts for some articulation in the close-up. Steal it for AI at your peril. 😇

[cochart]

My shuake mini zine is up! Read the rest in the zine.

It’s free for download so don’t feel pressured to pay.

I normally would have made a post of it, but Tumblr only allows 10 images and I’m 3 pages over.

Thanks always for your kind words by the way.

Anyway, I hope you like it even though summer is over! I mean, with global warming, summer never seems to be over.

Basically, I wanted to draw some star related comic for summer as I did with Orion.

I thought Personal Royal trio (Joker, Akechi and Kasumi) kinda goes well with the Summer Triangle which is Vega, Altair, and Deneb.

Vega and Altair are more blatant lover stars unlike Rigel and Betelgeuse which I guess feel more like rivals or duo? But what better stars to show some summer romance?

Also, I thought Sumire goes well with Deneb which is the brightest star of Cygnus. I know she’s more Cinderella themed, but come on. She would also make great Odette and you can easily imagine her as a ballerina as well.

Also my headcanon is that Goro pretty much hates most festivities including his own birthday, Valentines, Christmas, and any festival including Tanabata because he seldom had any chance to enjoy them with anyone.

[aurumalatus]

𝐩𝐢𝐱𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐚𝐮 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝟏

pairing. kinich x fem!reader

genre/warnings. pixelprincess!au (princess!reader x knight!kinich), reposted for formatting lol

summary. a series of random headcanons from the universe! part 1 of many because i have lots of thoughts about these two

author's note. feel free to come scream about some more headcanons with me <3 enjoy!

𝐩𝐢𝐱𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐚𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

kinich and the princess have known about each other for a long time, but it’s only recently that they’ve really talked a lot and become close (since kinich became your guard)

kinich is a bit more open in this universe because although he grew up an orphan, he was recruited into the guard earlier and taken care of by his fellow trainees and the castle staff. he’s still pretty serious and deadpan at his core but he has a bit of silly in him too 

the maids especially used to dote on him a lot. they would coo about how beautiful his eyes are and sneak him cakes and sweets from the kitchen

kinich and the princess actually had one key interaction when they were children that she doesn’t remember

the princess came down with a bad illness and had to stay in her room for about a week. kinich was assigned guard right outside her room, but she never saw him. still, they used to talk a lot during that week through her door, and she never quite figured out who her temporary friend was.

princess used to be *very* spoiled and she knows this. kinich is one of the only people who knocks her down a peg, and he also taught her how to do a lot of practical things (i.e. cleaning, cooking, weaving) 

kinich takes his shirt off by grabbing the back of his collar and pulling it over his head (idk if i’m describing this well, but the image in my head is INSANE). 

once they actually get together, kinich is the type to kiss the princess’s tears away when she cries (i’m going to scream)

kinich secretly has always known he loved the princess in some capacity, maybe since the day he was inducted as her guard (he looked up into her eyes, knelt before her, and felt something burst in his chest). he doesn’t feel like he deserves her love in return and feels so committed to his duty that he won’t do anything about it.

kinich isn’t afraid of dying, but he’s afraid of leaving the princess alone. it’s the reason why he insists on teaching her so many practical things like fighting—he doesn’t trust anyone else to protect her like he can.

there’s a yearly tournament among the guards (and any citizens that want to enter) that is held to win the royals’ favor. kinich is required to participate due to his position, but he tries a lot harder than he lets on—something about letting another guard win kind of irritates him. he wins your ribbon as a prize, a sign of your personal favor, and keeps it on him at all times. he claims it’s just to prove that you owe him.

kinich is a TERROR in the capital marketplace. sellers love him and hate him—he’s fair, but he barters like HELL. you, on the other hand, are any easy target. you will pay pretty much any price they name, and this irritates kinich greatly.

kinich is in charge of training newer recruits to the guard, and older members will warn them not to mention the princess in front of him. last time someone said something disrespectful about her, kinich had them running laps until the sun came up.

most mornings, kinich trains at sunrise. the princess will come out to join him sometimes, either to just lay down in the grass and talk, or to bring out a picnic

many princesses from other nations are attracted to kinich, but he does not return the sentiment—whenever one tries to talk to him, he acts extremely dry and boring on purpose until they lose interest.

kinich has a lot of piercings, but they're not always optimal to fight in—on days when he expects a battle, he wears a pair of studs that the princess gifted him

the castle maids have a running bet on how long it will take you and kinich to get married. sometimes they try to push it along by telling kinich you're looking for him when you aren't, just to pull the two of you together. the pot is over one million Mora, and at some point, the queen joins as well.

[vivwritescrappythings]

sworn sword

knight!könig x plus-size!fem!reader

part 1 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - part 6

there has been civil unrest in the kingdom, prompting the king and your father to hire a knight to protect you. thankfully it is a knight you already know.

tw: fem reader, plus size reader, mentions of body image, not proofread

wc: 1.8k

masterlist

—

“The king insisted upon having a knight guard you,” your father said, hands clasped behind his back as he faced you.

He stood in front of the large windows overlooking the courtyard and the rose gardens. Your father had been appointed to the King’s Counsel, moving himself and you to the royal palace while your mother stayed behind to handle the estate and your sister’s wedding to Ser Garrick.

You were brought along to the palace with the hope that it would make finding a husband easier. Of course it was quite the same as at home, just the competition broadened from just your sister to the entirety of the other women at court. You were still too soft around the edges while the other women were willowy and slight in their gowns.

It was hard to hold a candle to them.

“A knight?” You were hardly important enough to warrant a knight being hired to keep track of you. Perhaps a City Guard member would make more sense, but a knight was far too grand.

The king was being cautious. There had been a few attacks on members of the castle as of late—a lord on the counsel was roughed up outside of a pleasure house, and a few servants had been robbed of their coin for their daily shopping. There had been plenty of unrest in the kingdom after the death of the queen, the poor becoming poorer as the king scrambled for some semblance of control.

Your father gave you a look, silencing your next protest as you closed your mouth. Living in the palace already made you feel like a bug caught in a jar, eyes constantly scrutinizing your every move… every word. A personal knight would only make that worse, a shadow to follow you for every moment of every day.

“He has already been selected, so save your arguments.” Your eyebrows lifted, hands folded primly in your lap as you waited for your father to continue. The high-backed seat you were in was uncomfortable, arm rests digging into the plush of your things as you crossed your legs at the ankle.

He stopped at his desk and leaned forward to rest his palms on it. There was a moment of contemplation, his lips pursing like he was going to speak. You watched him look up at the large double doors across the room.

“You may enter,” your father called.

The heavy door creaked as it opened, your whole body twisted so you could get a proper view of who entered. The height of his shoulder against the door told you the knight was massive before he even stepped inside fully. The armor looked new, shiny and polished and dent-free—likely freshly gifted from the king himself.

Then rather than a face, a mask with two crude holes cut for eyes in the black fabric came into view above his bulk. Your heart started to race, your gaze meeting Ser Kilgore’s for a brief moment as he clasped his hands behind him and looked down at the stone floor.

“Ser Kilgore has already taken the oath to be your sworn protector,” your father said as you stood. The top of your head hardly reached Ser Kilgore’s shoulder, your eyes widening as you turned to face him.

He had not seemed so massive from the stands at the tourney.

“He will be with you from sun up to sun down until the king deems it safe enough for him to be dismissed.” You still balked at the knight, wondering if he had volunteered or been chosen. Of all the men in the kingdom, your father and the king had selected him. You brought the stuffed bear with you from home, it sat on the window sill in your chambers.

You remembered yourself after a beat of silence. “Thank you, Ser,” you breathed, curtsying even though he was not looking at you.

He let out a grunt of acknowledgement, still as silent as he was at the tourney. You wondered what his voice sounded like as he picked his head up. His blue eyes were piercing, crisp like a stream in winter. You felt pinned in place by his stare, swallowing thickly before averting your own eyes.

Your father shifting some papers on his desk reminded you of his presence.

“Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?” you asked your father, looking at him over your shoulder. He dismissed you with a shake of his head and a wave of his hand, turning his attention to the thick ledgers on his writing desk.

Ser Kilgore opened the door for you, following you into the hall at a few paces behind.

You had no idea what to do with the shadow that loomed over you all day. Ser Kilgore lingered at the edges of rooms and just outside doorways, silent and stoic. He never removed the covering over his face, never spoke. He only observed.

It made you realize just how boring your days were. You spent time with the other noble ladies at court—mostly the daughters of lords and the younger princesses—embroidering and having tea in the garden and gossiping with thinly veiled turns of speech.

Nothing you did warranted his constant protection, that was certain.

Part of you wanted to force him to speak to you–wanted to demand that he answer your questions. He conversed with no one, only nodding or shaking his head with other knights when they stood shoulder to shoulder.

Perhaps he lost his voice in an accident, you imagined gruesome images of Ser Kilgore surviving getting his throat slashed and vocal cords cut. You heard a story of a knight who had his throat crushed by a horse and still lived—could that be your knight?

Your knight. What an odd phrase.

His head was always covered, you had no clue what lingered beneath. But you were certainly curious.

Evening soon fell, your knight dutifully escorting you to your chambers. You walked next to him, his long stride shortened to match yours. It had taken you most of the afternoon to convince him to stop walking a few paces behind like a shadow. At least at your side you could pretend he was a companion rather than a sworn sword.

“Does this assignment bore you?” you finally asked, glancing up at him. It would bore you–watching a noble woman do nothing aside from chatter amongst other women and embroider handkerchiefs and walk the gardens all day seemed miserable.

Ser Kilgore shook his head, his light eyes cutting down to meet your questioning gaze. His eyes were the only part of him not covered: his blonde eyelashes were long and curly, his irises shining like aquamarines, the slivers of pale skin visible against the frayed fabric seemed delicate–there were a few thin edges of scars peeking around the fabric.

How desperately you wanted to pull the hood from his face and see the man underneath. You had been thinking about him ever since the tourney, fantasizing about what he sounded like, what he looked like beneath all of his armor.

You narrowed your eyes at his silent response, head cocking to one side as you inspected him. “Can you speak?” It might have been a rude thing to ask–your mother always informed you that you were far too brash for a respectable noble lady.

It never stopped you before.

He huffed softly–a laugh, you guessed. His eyes creased at the outer corners like he was smiling.

Another nod. You only ever earned yourself nods and head shakes.

“I have not seen you speak to another person all day.” It sounded accusatory rather than a simple observation. Well, you were accusing him. If he could speak, why would he choose silence? You resisted the urge to cross your arms over your chest like a petulant child.

Ser Kilgore shrugged his broad shoulders, still smiling beneath the mask.

You could scream with your frustration.

“Considering that we will be spending the majority of our time together from now on, I would appreciate it if you at least tried to speak with me,” you said, sounding more entitled than you intended to. “Existing in this castle is lonely—I never know who is truly my friend or friend or is simply trying to spy on my family—I would like to have someone to trust.”

Ser Kilgore looked at you for longer this time, head tilted down to take you in properly. You still followed the maze of hallways to your chambers, each one the same: braziers lining the walls and illuminating the tapestries and paintings hung up, sometimes there was the odd statue. The polished stone floor echoed your footsteps, the hallway otherwise quiet.

He did not shake his head in either direction: no affirmation or denial of your statement. Just a curious gaze taking in your expressions.

He stopped outside the polished wooden doors leading to your chambers, settling with his arms behind his back as he nodded for you to enter. His armor rattled a bit as he moved, the chainmail on his arms catching the light of the braziers lining the walls and throwing shadows across the stone.

“Goodnight, Ser Kilgore,” you finally huffed, slipping between him and the door. You knew you were being petulant like a child that did not get her way. You pouted anyways, lips pulling into a sort of frown.

The door was heavy to pull open, forcing you to put your whole weight into it. Ser Kilgore reached over you, a hand curling around the side of the door and opening it for you.

“Goodnight, my lady,” he responded, surprising you with his deep, accented tone. He sounded like he was from one of the eastern territories. Each vowel was clipped, consonants harsh. “If we are to be friends, call me König.”

You gaped at the sudden sound of his voice, stuck halfway inside the doorway. It was simple enough to tell that he was smiling that time, mirth shining in his eyes as he looked down at you.

A million questions to ask him flooded your mind. It felt like you had to keep him talking now that he spoke, part of you worrying that this opportunity would not occur again. You wanted to ask him why he picked you at the tourney—it had bothered you for months.

“My lady, we have already started heating water for your bath,” your maid Agatha said, drawing your attention. You glanced away from him for a moment, seeing her filling a wooden tub near the hearth with pails of water.

König nodded for you to go in, surveying the slice of the room he could see from the partially open door. The stuffed bear he gave you was visible, set atop a book on the window sill. He stared at it for a moment before redirecting his gaze back to you. You hesitated another moment before taking a step from where you had been rooted moments before.

“Goodnight, König,” you amended, earning a huff of laughter and a nod of acknowledgment as he allowed the door to swing closed behind you.

[beomiracles]

omggg can I pllsss request for some pretty sub prince soobin he’d be soo cute ☺️

「 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐋 𝐃𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐒 」

DREAM RECALL He carefully reaches for your wrist, letting his fingers clasp around it as he guides the palm of your hand to his groin, pressing it against his undoubtedly hard cock with a shaky sigh. Bold. “Does his majesty not think of it improper? Such a vulgar place, not even in his bedchambers?” But the prince only shakes his head, his breath shallow as his eyes beg for you to give in, to give him what he wants.

wc. 3.5k

pairings prince!soobin x maid!reader (fem) warnings handjobs, tiny bit of cum eating, unprotected sex + creampie, sub!soobin, dom!reader, inexperienced!soobin, loss of virginity, class difference, tiny bit of nipple play, vaginal fingering, degradation, semi-public.

#serene adds ✎ every time I say I'm done writing royal au's im lying. this ask is genuienly from like the beginning of July, I am so sorry for taking two decades to get around to it love >.<

not very proofread

“Hush now, wouldn’t want the other maids to hear us would we?” You drawl, watching as Soobin’s gaze flickered toward the door of his grand bedchamber. The prince swallows thickly, his prominent adam’s apple bobbing against his sweaty and flushed throat as he shakily exhales. — The smug smirk that creeps onto your face is barely concealed by the dim light of the wax candle, slowly dripping on his bedside table. “I am merely tending to changing the Prince’s bed sheets.” 

“Am I not?” 

He hastily nods, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he tries to muffle the whiny sounds threatening to slip off his tongue as your fingers wrap around his hard cock. — His thigh twitches in response to the squeeze your hand gives him and Soobin throws his head back, exposing his flushed neck. It was tempting to litter it in kisses, bites, ones that would surely linger the following morning. But that was of course, impossible, for the Prince couldn't possibly be seen in such a state, not when the other maids came to dress him. The thought of their flimsy hands on his body made you cringe as you tried to pry the image from your head, instead focusing on the man before you. 

The Prince. 

The silk robe has slipped down his body, exposing his pointy shoulder, his collarbone, the skin of his chest and his pretty pink nipple; your free hand reaches for it. Twisting and pinching the hardened bud between your fingers you draw a strained groan from him as his hips jerk forward, cock nearly slipping from your loose grasp and you tsk. 

“So impatient”, you mutter, thumb sliding along a prominent vein. Soobin swallows a small cry as he nods, lips now parted as he lays panting. “I have waited for you all day- no, all week”, he protests between hissed moans. — Biting the inside of your cheek, you regard him with fabricated sympathy. “All week you say?” The inquiry is followed by another squeeze to his throbbing cock and Soobin whimpers. “But it has been but a fortnight since our last encounter, no?” — “Tell me, do you serenade all your maidens like this?” 

He gasps, whether it was from the way you leaned down to give his tip a gentle lick or the blunt accusation, you didn’t know. — “N-No never!” He huffs, fingers curling around the soft duvet beneath him, doing his utmost to keep his hands to himself. “Only you…There’s only you.” He says the words so shyly, carefully peering up at you through batted eyelashes. 

You hum, tongue flat against his wet cock, soaked in his built arousal. Your hands are on his thighs, he’s tall and lean, delicate, as if he’d never worked a day in his life. And he’s eager, inexperienced and longing. It made you feel powerful, having the soon to be reigning king, groveling at your feet as he pleads for a release only you could grant him. — “Please.” The soft caress of his voice carries out into the air, his eyes are wide and glossy as he blinks up at you, doe-like. — You know what he wants. 

Soobin is beautiful when he climaxes, lashes fluttering as his vision grows hazy, pink lips parted in such an endearing manner as he makes a noise of ecstasy. His face becomes all red, and mixed with the sweat lingering there, he looks near glazed. — The warm essence of his cum stains your hand, and you let him clean it up, tongue enthusiastically darting out to slide over your fingers as he keeps his gaze on you. 

Despite his high status and important title, he’s utterly pliant before you, someone so lowly viewed by the rest, yet he worships you. Stored away from the dangers of the real world, the prince knows nothing but what you’ve taught him, and you’ve taught him good. — He rarely gets to touch you though, even so, you catch the longing in his eyes as his hands clench by his sides. 

When you slip out of his room, late at night when the castle is asleep, things return to how they were supposed to be, formal and proper. But the prince is far from bright, and he lets himself linger by your side even when not required, his eyes stray a little too long, his attention torn between his duties and his desires. 

The other maids gossip, but the room falls silent whenever you enter. They all speculate about you and the prince, about why he was so adamant on calling for you whenever he needed something, and why no one seemed to know of your whereabouts at night. — But a maid’s rumor can only get her so far, so you pay them little mind. 

Though one night, he takes it too far. 

For it was one thing to have his servant run errands, as they usually did. But when Soobin’s large hand suddenly finds place on a shy maid’s shoulder, your eyes narrow. — She’s your junior, and blushes furiously under the prince’s gaze, asking over and over if there’s anything she can do for him. All to which he merely shakes his head, thanking her for her services as he promises to call for her soon again. 

He lets himself linger by her fidgety frame, and with the small twitch of his lips does his eyes find yours. The squeeze he gives her shoulder makes her practically jump and your jaw clenches as you watch the prince dismiss her with a far too warm and inviting smile. The maid bows so low her nose might as well kiss his shoes, then she scurries off, though not before throwing a glance or two in the prince’s direction. 

You do not visit his chambers that night. nor do you the night that follows. 

It goes on like that for a few days, the fleeting glances, the subtle touches to his servants, and you avoiding him. His motive was beyond your imagination and with a frown etched onto your face, you move through your duties for the day. — It is not until well past dinner, when the kitchen is nearly empty, that there is a small shift in the air. 

The initial confusion had slowly flared into anger, resentment, jealousy. You had clearly made him aware of the boundaries he wasn’t to cross, the way his arms had to lay so perfectly still by his sides, unable to move, unable to touch and caress. — It seems he’d grown tired of waiting, tired of tiptoeing around. And now he was taking without shame. He was being careless, and soon he would get caught. 

Your feet drag across the stone floor, reaching the small pantry as you push the wooden door open with the help of your hip, arms cradling jars of conserved foods. Taking your time, you organize the cramped space, fitting the new bottles and pots amongst the existing ones. — Behind you, the old door creaks, the rusty hinges make a squeaking sound and upon turning around you’re met with a tall and looming shadow. 

Soobin leans against the doorframe, arms neatly folded across his chest as he studies you with an otherwise absent expression. “It’s a little too late for the prince to be up and roaming the castle walls still, no?” You wonder, though turning to give a small bow, nearly dropping the jars in your hands. — Soobin is there to catch them, easily fitting two in his large palm as he reaches for the shelf behind you, caging you against it. 

“Your majesty I am perfectly capable-” — “That’s not my name.” He interrupts your dismissal of his help, warm eyes flitting down to yours as his now empty hands come to rest by his sides. He seems torn, fingers curling up into fists as he holds back from reaching out, not because he shouldn’t, for he seemed to have little care for the way he’d touched his maids the previous days, but because you’d forbade him to do so. 

“I..” He bites the inside of his cheek, swallowing as he stalls for time. It was unusual for the prince to initiate something like this, as he would so pliantly wait on his bed for you each night. Suppose something had changed within him, because he was being careless now, reckless, just like he’d been with the other maids, undoubtedly in the hopes of garnering your attention. 

“You haven’t visited me”, he finally huffs and you can’t help but grin, hoping that the small glimmer of satisfaction couldn’t be made out in the dimness of the cramped pantry. “Should I have visited you, your majesty?” The low drawl of your voice makes his brows knit as he bites back a noise of frustration. Pathetic, but endearing. 

Soobin nervously nibbles on his bottom lip, gaze flitting between you and the door leading out into the kitchen. When his eyes return to you, he gives an almost unnoticeable nod. “Yes”, he breathes, his face so close to yours that the puffs of air he emits hits your cheeks.

With the cock of your eyebrow, you scoff, “I see.” You weigh your options for a minute before you let your knees drop to the cold and hard floor with an exasperated sigh. Soobins mouth parts in a small gasp as your hands caress his thighs, legs quivering under your touch. But it isn't long before he halts you. — “N-No, not like that..!” He urgently whispers, reaching out to pull you back up but stopping himself, fingers mere inches from your arms. 

Confused, you peer up at him. “Is this not what his majesty wants?” You drawl to which he sheepishly shakes his head. It was an undeniably unfamiliar setting, the prince was used to such events taking place within the four walls of his bedchambers; even so, he had initiated this, hadn’t he? So why was he hesitating now? 

You stay where you are, hands stilling against his thighs as you let your head fall to the side. — “There’s more…I want that”, he croaks, his voice sounding near strained as he swallows a ragged breath. “More?” You ask, sounding almost surprised at his sudden request. But the prince eagerly nods, fingers tentatively flexing when you rise to your feet. 

“Yes”, he exhales, “You. N-Not just me..” Oh if only he knew how delectable he looked right now; nervously fidgeting as he awaits your verdict. — “Your majesty, those are marital duties, it is not something you engage in with a mere maid.” Your words make his eyes widen in shock, his breath hitching in his throat as he blinks dumbfoundedly. 

For a moment he doesn't say anything, and all that can be heard are your mingling breaths. Then he licks his lips, almost absentmindedly as his gaze drops to your chest, the standard uniform all maids wore wrapped loosely around your body. — “I do not care”, he finally states and your eyebrows raise. “Perhaps your majesty doesn’t realize the severity of the matter.” 

“I do”, his eyes find yours, and they’re filled with determination, a determination you had yet to witness, ever. “I know that it cannot be undone but I…” He hesitates, teeth catching the inside of his cheek as he exhales through his nose, lips drawn into a thin line, “I want to do this.” 

The urgency laced within his words made your heart stutter in a most unfamiliar way and you have to hold your tongue in fear of letting something slip. He wanted to? Did he even know what he was asking for? — It was most improper, but then again, there was little proper about the way you snuck into his room each night as you made him cum on your hands. 

Suppose a little practice couldn’t harm. It would be an absolute disgrace for him to disappoint on his wedding night. 

“If that is what his majesty wants..” Soobin’s eyes light up at your words, a hopeful smile spreading across his face as he nods. “Then I shall see to the matter tomorrow night-” — “No”, he cuts you off, taking a step closer, his chest nearly brushing against yours. “Not tomorrow. Now. Please.” 

He carefully reaches for your wrist, letting his fingers clasp around it as he guides the palm of your hand to his groin, pressing it against his undoubtedly hard cock with a shaky sigh. Bold. “Does his majesty not think of it improper? Such a vulgar place, not even in his bedchambers?” But the prince only shakes his head, his breath shallow as his eyes beg for you to give in, to give him what he wants. 

It was nearly impossible to say no. 

With a small squeeze of your hand, he emits a strangled moan, hips bucking up into your grasp as he seeks your touch. He whines when you pull away, eyes shooting open in confusion as his brows furrow. — “You will have to please me too, it is part of your marital duties.” 

Soobin’s lips part, then he seems to catch on, swallowing a gulp as he shyly nods. “Then I will be able to touch you?” He hesitantly wonders, fingers practically itching to graze your skin. The rules you had once so clearly set were on the verge of crumbling all together, but with the way the prince was looking at you, it was impossible not to let them. 

“You may — But I will let you know how it’s done.” 

Your arm drapes around his neck, pulling him flush against your chest in one flat move. Soobin nearly loses his balance though quickly catches himself against the shelf behind you. With a small tsk you regard his flushed frame, “You will have to hold me up, can you do that?” — Without hesitating he nods, murmuring a quiet ‘yes’ as his hands reach for the back of your thighs. 

The strength he hoists you up into his arms with takes you by surprise, and with your back pressed against the crammed shelf you let yourself relax in his grip. Your fingers reach for the hem of your skirt, pulling the fabric along your legs. Soobin’s eyes remain glued to the movement, hungirly roaming your now exposed skin as you bunch the garment around your hips.

“This as well”, you say, motioning toward your undergarment and Soobin only wavers for a second before gently tugging it down your thighs. — The sight of your glistening cunt makes him let out a small noise from the very back of his throat, fingers mindlessly moving to touch you. “Wait.” Your hand is on top of his, redirecting him to your inner thigh. “You need to start slow.” 

He nods like he’s understanding but you know better. Instead you let your own fingers drag across your folds, spreading them for him to see as you slowly circle your clit. Soobin squirms uncomfortably against you as his teeth catch his bottom lip, biting down hard enough to where he might draw blood. — Letting out a content sigh, you breach one finger inside, curling it to reach the spot that made you clench. 

Soobin watches you like he’s entranced, eyes occasionally darting up to catch a glimpse of your expression before hastily returning to your cunt, focusing on the way your finger slid in and out of you so effortlessly. — You catch his own hands twitching as he holds back from touching you, desperately waiting for your permission. It was endearing. 

With a small moan you withdraw your finger, coating the rest of them in your arousal before bringing them to his face. Not having to be told twice, Soobin’s lips part as he lets you slide them inside his warm mouth, tongue carefully wrapping around them as he gets a taste of you. The whine he gives shouldn’t have made your heart flutter like that and your cunt clench, but it did, and you knew that you’d need to feel him inside of you, and soon. 

You pull your hand from his mouth, earning a displeased grunt from the prince before he realizes where you’re heading. “Touch me like I showed you”, you instruct, shivering as the pad of his thumb timidly presses against your throbbing clit. — He nervously awaits your response, moving as if he’s walking on glass, as if one wrong move ought to make him come crumbling down. 

But when all he receives is a melodic moan as your head falls back against the shelf, he continues. Long fingers spreading your wet folds just like yours had moments prior, middle finger hesitating above your fluttering hole, he bites the inside of his cheek. — Soobin’s hands are bigger, they’re delicate and large, an odd combination, but a blissful one. His fingers reach deeper than yours ever could as he sinks them inside. 

He moves slowly, cautiously, his brows knitted together as sweat rolls down his forehead; entirely focused on making you feel good. It felt powerful to have him like this, if only the others knew. — Your arousal drenches both his fingers and hand, and Soobin is near panting as he eyes the way your cunt wraps around him. 

It’s not nearly enough, you need more and so does he. 

Soobin reluctantly lets you guide his hand from you, hands reaching for his dress pants as you undo them, just like you had so many times before, except tonight everything is different. “You’ll have to be slow this time around as well”, you say as you give his painfully hard cock a few gentle strokes. His grip on you immediately falters as you touch him, hips bucking up to meet your hand as he staggers against you. 

“Focus”, you snap, making him jolt as he swallows, gasping out a meek apology, fingers digging into your thighs as he holds you tightly. “If you can’t even please a mere maid, how will you do on your wedding night?” You scoff, jerking him off with rougher strokes, thumb flicking across his flushed tip as you draw a small cry from him.  

“I-I can please you!” He breathes, eyes piercing yours with determination. Your lips stretch into a grin, letting go of his cock as your hands come to rest atop his shoulders. “Prove it”, you drawl, watching as his face morphs from determination to shock to desire. — He’s been waiting for this, longing for it, and there’s no way he’s backing out now. 

His hand squeezes the base of his shaft, and Soobin nibbles on his bottom lip as he carefully slides his tip along your folds, breath hitching as he hears you moan. — He pushes past the tight rim of muscle slowly, just like you’d instructed him to, and you immediately clench around him. The sensation is so foreign, so… It’s everything, and he knows he won’t last long, you know it too. 

Gently easing himself inside, your face contorts into one of pleasure, short nails digging into his shoulders as you bite your tongue. — “Perfect”, you murmur, chest slowly rising and falling as your eyes flutter open, only to find his already locked on yours. His face is pink, the tip of his ears a bright red and his lips parted as he feels you wrap around him. 

“Move.” Your command makes him shiver and he nods, hips slowly rocking against yours. The stretch of his thick cock was unlike anything you’d ever felt before and you find yourself lost between wanting him to go even faster and savoring this moment, just like it was. — “I-Is this okay?” He breathes, his voice is meek, shy, and you grin. “It’s more than okay, your majesty.” 

The formality makes him frown, a small whine slipping from his lips. “Don’t call me that. Please”, he pleads, hot breath fanning across your neck as his head lulls against your shoulder, the sounds of his sloppy and uncalculated thrusts filling the small pantry. — Rolling your eyes, you let your hands travel to his hair, fingers intertwining in the blond strands there before tugging on them. The action causes a spark of pleasure to ripple through his body and Soobin moans against the skin of your neck. 

Upon feeling him twitch, your grin widens, “About to cum already?” He nods, a small whimper pulling at his lips as his hips stutter. “Your pathetic cock can’t even last a mere five minutes”, you scoff, and Soobin moans at the harsh words. So much for a soon-to-be reigning king you thought. — And though you can’t see his face, you’re almost certain that it’s scorching red. 

“Please.” 

Oh but you loved to hear him beg. Begging as if he didn’t have the world at his feet already. And you could never deny your prince, it was your duty after all. — You let him finish deep inside of your aching cunt, cock twitching as it fills you to the very brim. Soobin always looked beautiful when he climaxed. It was a sight you’d be late to forget, especially as he pulls back with a flustered smile, eyes dropping to where your bodies joined. 

You grab his hand, sliding it along the base of his cock before reaching your clit. “You’ve got to make me feel good as well”, your murmur, pressing his thumb against the swollen bud with a small moan. — “It’s part of your marital duties.”

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