24, 28 & 32 with charles blackwood, pretty please? and i loooove your blog so much!! also, i tried really hard to try and find the “before you request” page/link on your blog and couldn’t find it at all. so so sorry if i did something wrong ahh! 😩💗
you are SO polite and adorable! dw about it ❤️🥰 I got you 🥰❤️
“Behave.” // “I don’t want to hear your excuses anymore.” // “If you interrupt me one more time, so help me god.” (includes bodyguard!charles blackwood x princess!you, royalty au, violence in your defense, spanking, fingering, d/s dynamics, light bondage.)
do not repost.
“If you think because you’ll be queen, you speak to me that way—” Duke Eldridge is snarling at you. (or is it Eileen? Alfred? You don’t know. All you know is his nation is much smaller than yours.) His mature features are screwed up in red-faced, raging embarrassment, and his finger jabs out with the intention of shoving you backward.
Who knew pointing out an elder royal’s causal, insecurity-based sexism then making a joke about his overcompensating demeanor would have him seconds away from throttling you? Well, you did—it wasn’t necessarily your intention, but it was always a possibility.
It’s always a possibility, because you’ve done this many times before. But it’s like, being the princess, future queen, to kingdom powerful as yours that means you can go against these assholes in the way their people dream to.
Before the Duke’s index touches your chiffon clad shoulder, it’s being twisted around his back. A sickening CRACK! preluding his wimpish cries before combat boots swipe underneath his ankle that sprawls him across the ballroom floor.
The expanse had already been quieting at the confrontation, but now is effectively silent, grandiose gowns and tuxedos locked tensely on your personal guard’s wrath. A usually charming man, six feet tall with an equally intimidating mass, shifting in the physical embodiment of a tornado wrecking whatever’s in your path—and right now, he’s intent of ripping Duke Oldboy out of your way.
Charles sets a heavy, leather clad boot against his throat, blackened blue eyes narrowing. “Didn’t anyone inform you disrespecting the princess is cause for death?”
The other guards are clamoring in to make good on his word, hauling the now blanched royalty to meet his deathly fate. And, you use to try and convince him that such consequences are far too extreme, but it’s never been successful. Instead, your personal blackguard has you escorted out before you can lament your dissent.
Muttering under your breath, you don’t bother revolting, allowing two armed wards to bring you back to your suite. Truth be told, you’ve always hated the whole ostentatious party scene, and Duke whatshisface might deserve what your lifetime protector is furied to give him.
When Charles is finished, he promptly locates you. Barging into your suite without knocking as you preen in your vanity mirror, he’s splashed in blood, bow tie loose, jacket off with his white long sleeve rolled to his forearms. The anger emitting from his tightly coiled form is almost suffocating, the majority directed at you, apparent as his icy blues pierce you.
“Cosa ti ho detto, principessa?” The slow drawl of baritone Italian cuts through the air, the switch in language a calm indication of true lividity, deadly as he repeats, “What did I tell you, princess?”
Your teeth gnaw on your bottom lip, dithering between snarking back—because might as well—and accepting your fate. A bead of silence, and he narrows on you in silent demand. “Behave,” you finally say with a mild hissed quality. “You told me, comportarsi.”
“So you did hear me.” With a sardonic smile, a juxtaposition to the fire beneath the storming waters of his eyes, he presses forward, plucking a cloth off your vanity to clean blood from his split knuckles. “A simple fucking order to follow, correct? And yet—”
“It wasn’t my fault!” you suddenly blurt in a belated realization the former of the previous choices is best. “You can’t blame me. He was a dick to me first! Was I not suppose to relatitate?!”
“I don’t want to hear your excuses!” he explodes, slamming his hand on the wooden desk, almost shattering your mirror. “You were suppose to get me so I could handle it. How many times do I have to tell you that?! Princess, you know I don’t like to repeat—”
You stomp your foot like a petulant child despite being a grown woman, insisting your shifty innocence: “All I did was make a joke—”
“If you interrupt me one more time, so help me god—” he snarls with another dangerous step toward you, fists flexing at his sides.
“Or what?” you challenge, an infuriating smirk tilting. You’re the motherfucking princess; your own father doesn’t speak to you like that. “What are you gong to do, Charles? Spank me?”
The mocking prompt strikes him, first nonplussed by your blatant disrespect, processing it with parted lips. It evaporates instantly, a wicked curl of his redden lips, a considering gleam like white tips on waves in his eyes. Your stomach dips with his delighted, determined, “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
His hand shoots out to yank you forward, stumbling you into his chest while he buries it in your hair. Ruining the updo, locks falling down your back, strands cupping your cheeks, he forces your gaze on his. “Take your gown off, princess,” he growls, watching defiance flicker in your expression. His grip tightens, a sting to your scalp that has you gasping. “Don’t make me rip it.”
Your hands are trembling underneath the heat rising in your center as you grasp his wrist. “You wouldn’t,” you whimper, but the look in his eyes tells you different. Now, you’re scrambling to peel it off, and he releases you to shakily unlace the tight then flowing fabric. It’s a gorgeous piece done by hand, a blended A-line with thin straps, tied at your waist.
Unknotted, it pools around your feet, leaving you indecent. In nothing but your undergarments, it’s most exposed a man has ever seen you—a fact attributed to him (not that you have a problem with).
Goosebumps arise in the wake of his lascivious orbs, a cold heat invoked solely by his gaze and not the low temperature of your bedroom. Your face flushed, his eyes roam covetously over your skin, pushed up cleavage to the line of your navel, down the tempting V of your thighs.
A soft sound erupts from the base of his throat as he nods to your covered flesh. “What’re you waiting for?” he growls. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“You only said the gown,” you simper despite better judgement to simply obey.
Once again, you’ve astounded him and pissed him off all in one go. “You know the things I’m capable of, the things I’ve done, the people I’ve killed, and you still test me?”
You don’t back down, you should, but you don’t. “As if you’d done any of it if weren’t to protect me,” you snark matter of factly.
You’re right, and his eye twitches. “Bend over.”
“Make me.” You fold your arms and turn your back to him.
You can’t help it, truthfully. There’s an addicting rush to provoking a man like him—testing his thin patience because you’re the only who can without having a death wish.
He chuckles, low and humorless, and a shiver slithers down your spine. His hand wraps around your arm tightly, bringing his face beside yours. “You have three seconds to lay across my lap, or, instead of spanking your ass, I’ll shove my cock in it,” he utters calmly in your ear, syllables slow so the commitment to his threat sinks in.
Lightning jolts through your veins; a spike of arousal so powerful, it’s dizzying. Your breathing catches as you twist around to face him. The tension fizzles between you two, the unflinching demeanor, and your desire because of it.
“You can’t - you aren’t allowed—” you mean to speak strongly, but your voice cracks, vaguely a whimper. “You’re not suppose to say things like that to the princess.”
The hand around your arm unfurls, and he perches himself expectantly on the edge of your bed. Remaining aplomb, he merely looks at you, legs spread wide in anticipation of you. “One, two—”
Your body springs into action before your mind thinks to, draping your abdomen across his muscular thighs. There’s an echo of humiliation in baring yourself like this for him, a perverse pleasure in knowing this is a disgraceful act of princess to do—much less with the man who’s grown up alongside you in purpose of your safety. An irony there, too.
You squirm. Not your fault with an uncomfortable sensation itching at your skin in being in a position so foreign, both dynamically and physically.
Half balancing in a plank, your hands are pawing for stability on his thighs, legs shifting between finding footing flat on the ground and straightening. It’s a flail, subconsciously trying to irritate him like he’s done with you.
“Be still,” he orders but it’s just so awk—“That’s it!” he suddenly growls. Then the sharp riiiiiiiiiip of your brasserie fills the air, roughly tearing the elastic down the middle of your back and off your chest. In a similar fashion, he’s grabbing your wrists and lace immobilizes your arms just above your ass.
“C - Charles!” you whine when your vehement wiggling does nothing to budge the knot. It straddles the edge of painful and lax; a slight strain in your shoulders as a reminder it’s there yet blends uniquely with everything else you’re feeling.
“Unless you want me to gag you, I suggest you keep your pretty mouth shut,” he warns, a husky chuckle when you do just that, teeth worrying your bottom lip in replacement. “Don’t think being good now is gonna get you outta this ‘cause it’s been a long time coming, princess.”
His hand caresses your behind lightly, palming each cheek through the thin fabric of your underwear. Little noises catch in your throat, almost gasping beneath his touch, pushing to your toes in an effort to receive more.
“You’ve just got the best ass I’ve ever seen.” There’s a guttural factor to his rough praise, emphasized with his fingers kneading into your skin. “Wearing those tight skirts and dress, you were just begging for me to get my hands on them. The amount of times I had to stop myself from bending you over my knee like this.”
It’s debauched, but you want it—whatever it is. An ache throbs below like never before, and you’re helpless to soothe it, completely dependent upon him, like so many times before.
Your pinned hands clench, and you shake your head. “Charles,” you moan, beginning to wiggle, “you’re not allowed - you’re not suppose to treat the princess like—”
“If you were acting like a princess, I wouldn’t have to instill this lesson into you,” he hisses before wrenching your panties down your thighs, and you don’t get to question lesson because his palm is cracking down.
Calloused flesh on soft rings deafeningly within your bedroom, your loud cry mixed in as burning blossoms through your bottom. The pain drips low between your thighs, a confusing flash of satisfaction before disappearing with the wined back of his arm.
“Oh, God,” you warble, and you’re wriggling again, your head heavy over his thigh. “C - Charles…”
“You can do whatever you want, princess, but make no mistake, when it comes down to it, you will listen to me.” Charles twists your hair around his arm, enforcing an arch in your back to offset the sting in your scalp. It effectively stops any residual writhing, and it allows him to brace your hips firmer under his knee. You know you’re going to get it, so why are flooded in scathing eagernesss?
In a false sense, he’s rubbing over each cheek gently, and you’re squeezing your eyes shut in preparation. “You can do whatever you want, princess, but make no mistake, when it comes down to it, you will listen to me.” His voice washes over you like gravel. “And I’m going to make sure you don’t forget it.”
The wind whistles as he draws back.
“When I say, don’t do something, you don’t fucking do it.” THWACK! “When I say behave, you will behave.” THWACK! “And if you don’t—” THWACK! “You won’t sit right for weeks.”
Each blow is centered between your respective asscheeks, an evenly toned bruise to span across in the morning. Your ass can light a candle with how hot it burns, sizzling with aftershocks as the cold air breezes past your aching flesh.
You jolted with every hit, whimpers escaping, but ultimately withstood the pain. Now, with the release of your hair, you’re panting incessantly, your cheek resting on his lap, lingering tremors down your back. To make matters worse, liquid lust is trickling down your thighs, tickling and uncomfortable.
“Do you understand me, princess?” Charles pauses then, THWACK! But this time, he’s angled lower, a smack on slick flesh. “Dimmi che mi capisci, principessa.”
“I - I understand,” you rasp.
He makes an approving hum. “Good.” His hand returns to you, massaging your stinging bottom, briefly rubbing his thumbs into the tender muscle. Then he moves lower, dipping his fingers over your folds teasingly. “Look what you’ve done,” he murmurs as his fingers move lower, brushing across your dripping folds. “You’re making a mess all over my pants. I have half a mind to make you lick it up.”
“S - sorry,” you immediately moan, careening back in hopes of relieving stimulation.
He chuckles. “S’okay,” he says. “The question is, should I oblige the princess? Already spoiled rotten. Giving in would only make it worse, right?”
As he speaks, you feel his eyes taking you in greedily: how unmistakably you glisten underneath the light, the darkened glow of your abused ass, the shake of your bound wrists. His fingertips are teasing, rough pads tracing your entrance then sinking down to encircle your engorged clit.
“Please, please.” You strain to look back at him, for him to see the sincere need in your eyes. “Charles, please. It hurts,” you whimper, and you aren’t referring to the spanking.
“Princesses aren’t suppose to beg,” he mocks. “But I do live to take care of you, so…”
His fingers finish the sentence, honing in on your nub, direct pressure beginning to swirl hot and steady circles.
“O - oh!” you gasp when the furnace in your belly suddenly roars to life.
Your tippy-toe footing fumbles, but he’s anachoring a hand curled around one of your thighs, fixing your stability while he plays.
Wrists tied, bent over his lap, all you can do is take it, moans and mewls, limited squirming. His touch is skilled, tactful compared to your otherwise virgin experience (again, his fault, although without complaints.)
Palming your sex, heel slotted between the heart shape of your ass, his arrowed fingertips are working with an ever increasing pace, sponsored by your excessive wetness.
“Prissy princess, I should’ve known you’d have the cutest little pussy. So soft, and wet for me,” he croons above you, not a slow in his ministrations, the pit in your stomach preparing to combust. “But I think it’d be even prettier after I’ve fucked it all abused.”
Your nails cut crescents into your palms, gasping as the dizzyingly sweet sensations swell. “Charles, oh, God,” you moan, eyes shutting while waves begin to crash.
“Is that what my filthy, little princess wants?” he continues, a ravenous note to the husky question. “Wanna match with this pretty spanked-red ass of yours? Fuck you so you’ll still feel the burn days later?”
A cocoon of heat engulfs you snugly, blazing as convulsions involuntarily wrack your body, so strong you almost rip your ties off. For over several seconds, the most pleasurable sensation render you wild, only waning with the reluctant end of his caress.
Once he’s sure it’s died down, a few twitches as you go slack, you’re being maneuvered. A careful and gentle shift places you on your bed, laying you out in your belly because your ass still resounds with smarting pain. Your bra-turned-bind is pulled free, your arms instantly going underneath your face despite your wince at the sudden movement.
“I’m going to take care of you,” he says but you already know it. “I’m going to take care of you, princess.”
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