Chapter Text
The fog hangs heavy in the air, so thick that you could almost swear droplets suspend on your lashes.
Your fingers ache from holding onto the reins of your steed. Phalanges flexing, you loosen your grip for a moment. Your horse is well-trained, one of the many trusted from the prince’s personal stable.
He had been one of the many wedding gifts presented to you upon your marriage to the heir.
Your husband didn’t quite understand why you took so much to riding your horse and caring for Kimi. Oftentimes, he would joke that you spent more time in the stables and that he would soon mistake you for a stablehand. He would complain that you stank of labor, unbefitting of a lady of your stature and status, but you knew enough.
It was a strange little waltz the both of you did, because he would tell you to bathe and scrub yourself down.
The funny thing is that he meant he would watch you each time, sitting on a chair so regal it could easily become a throne.
He would lean back, legs crossed with his ankle resting at the other leg’s knee. One hand would be nursing a pipe, the holder stuffed loosely with imported tobacco. His other arm would be draped lazily over the back of his chair, golden eyes dimmed by blown pupils.
Your husband would watch as you scrubbed yourself clean in his bath, your toes peeking out from the rim of the tub.
He would watch as you bathed, then dried yourself with the softest towels he could procure. Then came the sweetly-fragranced oils, dousing yourself and filling his nose with the scent of osmanthus and peach tea.
He swears off alcohol, but nothing could ever get him inebriated like you do.
You know this. He knows you know this.
The man never cared that you would use yourself as a weapon against him, knowing exactly what it took to get him to crumble to his knees.
You have known him for forever, know his penchant for blatant disregard for the deemed weaker sex.
He believes himself to be a man, but you know better. He is a boy. And regardless of mental, emotional, and physical maturity, one thing is certain of boys and men and males:
They are weak to the wiles of the sweeter, softer, weaker sex.
Crown Prince Naoya is weak only to one individual alone.
“You.”
It is drizzling now, so faint that it isn’t even audible.
You care little for what the sky has to offer or the sound. After all, the only things you can hear are the heavy rush of blood against your eardrums and the soft breaths escaping your nostrils.
After all, the prince is staring at you, completely unamused.
Maki, your retainer, carefully helps you down from your horse. Her twin sister, Mai, clears her throat to speak as you smooth your hands down your simple riding gown. With one gloved hand, you push your hood back.
Naoya eyes your clothes for a moment, clear distaste on his expression. He has gotten too used to seeing you in glittering silks and ballroom finery. Wearing what he believes to be peasants’ garbs is something you know irks him, an insult already maturing at the tip of his sharp tongue.
“Her highness, princess–”
“I am aware,” he says, cutting his cousin and your retainer short.
By Mai’s side, her sister scowls as the prince’s officers bow politely towards you.
You cannot blame the twins’ hatred towards your husband. He is unkind to everyone, specifically to other women. His devoted favoritism and obsession towards you is both a blessing and a curse.
Except at the moment, he looks anything but pleased at your sudden presence here at camp.
You understand.
The nation is at war.
He has been away from home for nearly half a year, cutting his original time spent with you on your honeymoon too short.
You can see it on his face. Shadows beneath his eyes, the dullness of his hair, the tight expression on his lips. While his locks are somewhat brushed back, you can tell that he has not bathed properly in quite some time.
He looks incredibly preoccupied at the moment, given that you had interrupted his meeting with several of his officers.
You know it has been tough.
“Prince Naoya,” you say, curtsying.
The heels of your riding boots sink into the mud and your husband’s brows twitch at the sight. Those shoes had been expensive, a gift that he had procured for you during one of his travels to a foreign nation. And here you are, allowing yourself to sink into the dirt and (in his eyes), deeper into humiliation.
You are not supposed to be here. This is a warzone.
“I carry a message from the king.”
One of his formerly well-manicured brows raises. It irks you more than if he had furrowed them together and spewed something angrily in your direction. He is more disappointed than mad, and it makes you feel sick to your stomach.
“I’ll speak with ya later.”
Red colors your cheeks, warming you down to your weather-chilled bones.
When one of his servants makes a move to escort you away, the twins take a step forward, batting their hand away.
“His highness will make time for his princess,” Maki grits out.
One of his generals, whom you know to be the twins’ father, barks angrily at them.
“You will do well to hold your tongue in the prince’s presence,” he says, to which Naoya simply raises his hand dismissively, turning his attention once more to the map that’s spread out on the outdoor table.
“Ranta,” he calls out, snapping his fingers to call for his squire. The young man immediately chirps, huddling close, eager to serve his lord. “See the princess to my tent. And ensure she’s properly bathed and fed ‘fore I retire in the evening.”
You stare your husband down, humiliated and annoyed at the fact that he has so easily brushed you away like this.
As his squire escorts you and your retinue to the royal tent, you grit your teeth.
Not only do you carry a message from the king, Naoya’s father, but–
Doing your best to maintain your composure, you exhale hot through your nostrils.
It has been months.
The meager letters that you receive from him are not enough. Even though he would write upon many sheets of parchment, it would never be enough.
Of course, you kept every dried flower he had pressed into his letters.
Of course, your fingertip would trace over each flourish he wrote in his words.
It would never be enough.
And even though you know that the lack of the prince’s presence in the castle lifted a heavy weight for many there… You missed him. You miss the prince, you miss him– You miss your husband.
For all his horrid temper and lack of empathy for others, for his indisputable lack of respect towards and cruelty, you miss him.
You missed Naoya.
Many nights you would pull pillows to your side and wrap your arm around them, hoping to emulate his body against yours. At breakfast, you would internally hope that he would return as you buttered your bread. He often would go in between his training to swoop in to visit, giving you a kiss before heading back out to the gymnasium.
You miss him.
You miss how he would touch you, the way he would kiss you like a man starved. He fucked like no other, all teeth and tongue after the introductory soft movements. He would kiss you gently at first, hands roaming tenderly over your body before shoving you down into the bed, cock filling you where you wanted him the most.
For the past nights, you moaned into your pillow, fingers in your cunt as you cried out for your husband.
And here you are in his tent, removing your muddied boots and fog-heavy riding clothes.
The twins work with the servants in bringing in a tub of water. With you hiding behind the makeshift curtain to spare yourself some modesty, you think.
How very odd that life has brought you here.
Not just marriage to the woman-hating, feline-faced crown prince. But here in his war tent in the middle of a battlefield.
You smell oranges in the hot water that’s prepared for you, and you step out when Mai calls you out from behind the covering.
A low groan escapes you as you dip into the hot water. There are diced up oranges and herbal leaves floating in the liquid, and you wonder about rations that exist here at camp. Were these fruits taken out from the soldiers’ meager desserts?
“Maki,” you call out.
The longer-haired twin looks up from where she is laying out your change of clothes on a nearby stool.
“Make a note to have the king increase the amount and quality of rations delivered to all the camps, especially for the enlisted.”
She nods her head.
By your side, Mai actually writes down a note before tucking it into her sleeve. Between the twins, Mai has always been better at secretarial and womanly work. Maki always had the better stamina for riding, traveling, and even defending you.
You scrub yourself down and use the small bucket to rinse yourself off in the tub.
“Stop–!” Maki shouts, when you hear the straps of the tent flaps opening. She stands up, arms outstretched as though to shield you. By your side, Mai stands in front of you to prevent anyone entering from seeing you.
“The princess is bathing–”
“As she should.”
The twins immediately bow, heads held begrudgingly in reverence.
The crown prince enters the tent, the flap closing heavy behind him.
He looks… washed.
His blonde hair is slicked back still, but the grime that was previously on his face seems to be scrubbed off. The former clothing he was wearing upon your arrival has been changed to a simple long-sleeved undershirt, plain breeches, and cleaned leather boots.
Something inside you fawns over the fact that he had hurriedly scrubbed and washed himself clean. He did it for you.
His eyes fall onto you in the tub, your chin tilted down and eyes lifted to him.
A small snort escapes the man.
“Dismissed,” he tells the twins, not even bothering to look at them as they exit his tent.
The both of you look at each other.
The atmosphere is thick, and it isn’t from the steaming, fragrant water you are bathing in.
“Your highness,” you whisper, voice soft.
Sweat and condensation from the steam drips off the apex of your chin.
The prince sighs, taking a step towards you.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“I know,” you respond. In the water, your skin is soft, fingers pruning.
“Do ya, now?” He scoffs. “This is a battlefield. We’re at war. This place ain’t meant for a princess. It’s just death.”
“The king–”
“I don’t give a fuck what that old man said.”
You press your lips together, shoulders squaring as you sink a bit further into the water.
“Your highness–”
“Right. He’s the king. My father. He is your king and mine. And I don’t give a fuck ‘bout whatever it is he told you,” he says, expression so unreadable that it makes you feel nervous.
He takes several steps towards you in the makeshift bath, his fingers reaching out to lift a lock of your damp hair. He stares down at you, his bare chest rising and falling as he tucks your hair behind your ear. Trailing his fingertip from your lobe beneath your jawline, he hums when you shiver at the touch.
“Your highness,” you whisper, barely daring to breathe.
His fingers trail down to your throat, tracing over the soft skin there. It’s such a light, teasing, tender movement and then he’s wrapping his fingers tight around your throat.
Your breathing hitches at the touch, eyes widening as you stare up at him.
“You will obey me, because I know what’s good for ya.” He pauses, allowing the silence to add weight to his words. “You obey me , because I am your husband . Ya got that?”
To the best of your ability, you swallow.
“Use yer words, honey.”
“Yes.”
He tuts, tongue clicking against his teeth.
“Oh. You can do much, much better than that, princess.”
“Y–” you start, voice straining when his grip tightens a fraction. “Yes, my lord.”
He smiles, eyes curving into crescent moons. You can almost swear you hear him purring in delight at your compliance.
“Good. That’s my princess,” he murmurs, leaning in to press his lips to yours.
It feels like everything.
This is everything.
He kisses you back, holding you in place in the large makeshift tub. You would lean into his touch, if not for his insistent grip on your neck. So he kisses you as you gratefully receive his affection, much like a flower in the sun.
Regardless of the rain or the torrid heat of summer, the sun is there – and you will take whatever the prince is willing to give.
When your lips disconnect from his, the softest whines escape you. Naoya loosens his grip from your throat and you breathe in air into your lungs, eyes fluttering open.
The prince’s golden eyes are half-lidded as he watches you, fingers sliding away from your neck to frame your jaw. The pads of his fingertips trace over your kiss-swollen lips as he regards you. His grip may not be threatening to crush your windpipe, yet he steals your breath all the same.
“My perfect, perfect girl.”
And then he’s shoving you back into the tub, your limbs flailing as you’re immersed into the warm water.
You can barely think, brain running like a headless chicken as he holds you underwater.
Heart thumping dully in your eardrums, you vaguely see him enter the tub with you. The meager light from his lanterns cast a shimmering, blinding glow of fractals into your vision. Your lungs burn, heart stammering like a hare’s in your ribcage, threatening to escape.
Desperately, you claw at his wrist, trying to get him to listen. You push and claw, but he is firm. He is a million times stronger, larger than you.
But suddenly, Naoya’s face is in the water, lips pressing against yours.
The muscles in your throat contract, your nails scraping uselessly against the firm muscles on his shoulders.
The crown prince kisses you, air from his mouth pushing into yours.
Your head spins at the sudden intake of a shared breath. In your throat, you feel the urge to scream and to sob.
Before you know it, you’re choking and gasping when his lips pull away. Your head reels at the sudden downward shift of blood, heartbeat ringing like a shrill cry along your skin. Water drips from your hair and your body as you catch your breath, blinking away the moisture from your eyes as you choke.
You’re no longer being held under water, you’re sitting upright in the tub–
You’re okay, you’re breathing, you’re–
“That’s it,” your husband tells you, planting kisses along your neck. “That’s it.”
A calloused hand rubs up and down your sternum, urging you to breathe as you weakly cling to his arms. He hums against your skin, mouthing kisses against your clavicle as he nips and bites at your wet flesh. You can only whine and sob, mind reeling from the whiplash of sensations.
“Y-Your highn– ness ,” you stammer, finally finding your voice, albeit a shaky one. “P-Please.”
“Yes, princess,” he tells you, gathering you in his arms from the bath. “I’m here.”
When he stands, you hear the water claim gravity from both of your bodies. The coolness of the air in his tent dances across your skin, causing you to lean into the natural warmth of his body. You feel like retching water, droplets falling from the tips of your toes and fingers as he carries you across his personal quarters.
The man sets you onto your shaky feet, a towel suddenly wrapped around you to dry you off.
It takes but a second for it to fall to the thick rug beneath you, forgotten.
You’re lunging at him, his back hitting the ground hard as your palms come in harsh contact with his handsome face.
“Nasty bitch–” He snarls, hands grasping your wrists.
For all of your ability to take him by surprise (just as he had when you were submerged underwater), he is still significantly faster and stronger than you.
You’re screaming and thrashing as he quickly switches positions with you. There’s a half-enraged, half-amused expression on his face as he stares down at you, lips curled back like a beast.
“What’s your problem,” he spits angrily. “This’ s’exactly why I hate ya women so much– can nver straight-up tell whatcha want.”
You scream at him, thrashing and trying to kick at him, but it’s of no use, really. He’s significantly bigger, stronger than you, and he easily pins your flailing limbs down, straddling you.
“Are ya done with yer stupid lil’ tantrum, or do I haveta fuck it outta ya?” He snaps, moments after you’ve simmered down, too tired and water-heavy to put up that much of a fight.
When both wrists are contained beneath the grasp of one hand, your cheeks are squished between the fingers of his other.
“Fuck you,” you grunt your breath, eyes damp from rage.
He rolls his eyes. Regardless, he opts to let you go.
“Yer lucky I care about’cha so.”
You jerk away from him angrily, reaching out to grab the fallen towel. When he reaches over to tie it more comfortably around your body, you give him a sidelong glance. He opts to ignore it.
“And what did my father want?”
You press your lips tightly together.
“I bled two weeks ago.”
He raises a brow at that, and you feel heat warm your cheeks. The blonde-haired prince gestures impatiently, as if telling you to elaborate.
“Your father’s health is ailing. He is desperate for the throne to be secured.”
The man gets up from the ground with a laugh. While you don’t lift your head, your eyes follow him as he walks over to his table. There is no alcohol to be seen, of course, but he does open one of his small table drawers.
“Desperate for me to produce another heir, eh?” He asks, pulling out his pipe. “Can’t believe ya left our son to listen to that old bastard’s words.”
You swallow, watching him as he lights it. The man seats himself on the edge of his lifted bedroll. For all the shitty bells and whistles of his tent, Naoya is still a soldier at the end of the day. He’s known war and bloodshed, and at the end of the day– he’s a man.
Luckily, he does not have the same alcoholic tendencies of his father. He opts for the pipe. He still resorts to violence at times, plates thrown at the wall and tables overturned.
He never hits you, unlike how his father treats his wife.
There’s no need for him to, Naoya and his brothers say.
After all, you had managed to become pregnant with his first child from the wedding night.
Naoya had quickly penned a letter to your old brother, thanking him for selling over such a fertile breeding princess. Your brother had sent him death threats, to which your husband had merely laughed over.
He laughed even harder when you delivered a healthy male heir with the same shock of hair as the prince.
For as much as you hated his father, the question of your loyalty and maidenhood could never be doubted. The prince’s heir is but two moons old, and his eyes are exactly like Naoya – sharp and demanding in every since of the word. You know that he will grow up spoiled and pampered by his father and all the attendants.
You just hope that he will not have the same temperament as Naoya.
The smoke fills the air, a rich scent of tobacco and some imported spice blend. You try your best to not inhale deeply, to hold the smell in your lungs until it bled into your veins. You missed the aroma and it has left your bedsheets quite some time ago.
You missed him.
And now you’re here, wet on the floor of his tent, bristling with self-deprecation.
You hate yourself.
You hate him, you lie to yourself.
“Y’can tell that mushroomy old drunken sod that if he’s that desperate for me to sire another heir, then he better get me a better, fertile bitch. Maybe this time, from the Kamo family.”
It pushes daggers into your already-salted wounds.
He puffs away at his pipe, catlike eyes falling on you.
As much as you tell yourself that you hate him, he looks absolutely divine like this, legs spread and seated on the edge of the bedroll. One arm back to prop him up, golden irises focused on you.
The man groans, sighing heavily before leaning back.
“Don’t look at me like that, sweetheart,” he says, as though he isn’t the exact cause of your looking like this.
You look away, tightening the towel around you even more.
Rolling his eyes, he walks over to you. When he squats in front of you, you turn your face away, to which the prince tuts.
“I wouldn’t dare do such a thing, ‘f that’s what yer worried about, precious,” he tells you, cupping your chin.
When you snap your teeth at his fingers, he retracts his hand quickly, letting out a dry laugh. You don’t care that his fingers are by your throat again, this time surprisingly gentle as he sits down in front of you.
“I’ve always loved that you’re both bite and bark, princess,” he murmurs. “The Gojos have always been such a disgusting, animal bloodline. And I fuckin’ love it.”
The glare that you send him merely sends him grinning, nails pushing into your palms when he leans in to press his lips against yours.
The prince isn’t familiar with women. That’s for sure. Not even a social ladder-climbing maiden would even deign to throw in her lot with him. There has never been any rumors of him siring a bastard with another.
Besides, the actual bastard is too in deep with you, pussy-whipped beyond belief, as much as he would claim to deny it.
The first time he had seen you, you were both young, barely teenagers. You had caught his eyes in a way that no one else had, and he had demanded then and there for you to marry him.
While you had laughed and brushed him off, the prince swore to have you as his.
And as fate would have it, your luck ran both short and long when your brother ended up marrying you off to the kingdom that the Zenin ran.
For Naoya, it was desire and conquest at first sight.
When your lips begrudgingly part for his tongue, your fingers soon tangle into his messy, still-damp locks. His pink muscle swirls along yours, and you whine when he pulls away.
You’re panting, your other hand resting on his wrist.
“If that asshole wants another grandchild so bad, we’ll give him one,” he whispers against your lips, picking you up and taking you to his bedroll.
It isn’t fancy.
While a bit of an upgrade in comparison to the regular standard-issue canvas and wool roll, all you can think about is your plush bed.
His bedroll is elevated on a long slab of wood, stuffed with fabrics and lined with quilts.
The fact that your next child will be conceived soon on the battlefield in his father’s tent is definitely something. But you can’t think too much about that. Not when Naoya is removing his shirt from his head.
For as much as he is mostly talk, the crown prince is chiseled.
He is an asshole in every sense of the word, but he is a soldier at the end of the day. His muscles are well defined, shoulders broad. His chest and neck are thick, with arms so muscular that veins bulge when he leans forward to write with his quill.
“Starin’ ain’t ladylike, princess,” he tells you with a wry grin, calloused fingers undoing the laces on his breeches.
You stare as he fishes his cock out. You can never really help yourself, even when he chastises you. It’s not like he’s actually annoyed by it – not when your actions stroke his already-inflated ego.
Although you don’t know much about the masculine form, you know that he’s big.
Well, big enough to have you aching for a day or so after each sexual encounter.
It also doesn’t help that he has that little flash of steel curved around the tip.
The first time you had seen it, days before the marriage ceremony, you didn’t understand. You had been terrified at the thought of it entering your virgin cunt on your wedding night, ripping you apart.
His logic had been sick.
He didn’t know if you were a virgin. And he wasn’t going to risk the magistrates checking the bedsheets in the morning.
And so the then six-and-twenty year old crown prince had his cock pierced nearly a year before the wedding. At least he’d make sure you would bleed, he had grinned, much to your utter nausea and fear.
You would be his, he would make sure that no one would come between the two of you and God.
Prince Naoya’s words are law, scripture.
His will is absolute, and with his father soon to pass, he would be everything.
“Spread yer legs for me. Show me what’s mine.”
You look up at him, chest heaving. Of course you comply.
“That’s my little princess,” he purrs, eyeing your glistening, pink cunt. “Good girl.”