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ohnojustimagine · 7 years

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Dusk Till Dawn

Neville/Reader 3730 words; Smut

A historical vaguely medieval-ish AU with droit du seigneur.

(If you don’t know what droit du seigneur is, it’s the supposed legal or customary right of a feudal lord to have sexual relations with a vassal’s bride on her wedding night.)

***

You’ve never been one of those girls who dreams of marriage, wasting away her days with imaginings of a beautiful man on a grand, powerful steed who rides in and sweeps her away from her ordinary life. You’re far too practical for such fancies, so when your wedding day finally arrives, it’s only a small celebration, but that is all you need. The ceremony takes place at the village church, efficient and without fuss, and then afterwards you, your new husband and your respective families retreat to your uncle’s tavern for food and dancing.

As you arrive, you note that there are two royal guards from the palace loitering outside the tavern entrance, and you are well aware of the reason for their presence, but for now you pay them no mind.

The evening’s merrymaking is pleasant but not too merry, exactly as you would wish. Your father has slaughtered a pig for the occasion, and there is ale aplenty. One of your brothers plays the fiddle, and you dance with your new husband, blushing when everyone stamps their feet, encouraging the two of you to kiss.

You quickly peck each other’s lips, and the assembled guests applaud. You find such customs somewhat tiresome, but it is the traditional way. You are no romantic, having known your husband since you were both children, but he is a good, hard-working man who will treat you well, and that is all you would ask for. Perhaps you do not feel any particular thrill when you look upon his features, plain as they are, but in these troubled times you would always choose a safe, steady life over some fleeting infatuation.

The afternoon wears on, and as the dusk begins to settle in outside, the palace guards enter the room, yawning as they stare around. Your husband takes your hand, squeezing it reassuringly as the men approach you. “It’s time, miss,” one of them says, matter-of-factly, and you nod, swallowing, knowing there is no argument to be had.

You throw a wrap over your shoulders and head out into the fading light, the guards marching along either side of you. The King’s castle looms over the town, and you look up at it, the imposing towers of stone rising above you, huge and unyielding.

You have heard tell that in some realms, droit du seigneur is regarded as an old-fashioned, barbaric custom, but in your kingdom it is a long-established and unquestioned law. Every bride of the lower, indentured class is presented to the King on her wedding night, and if he chooses to make use of her, be the first to deflower her, then that is his inalienable right.

You know that while the current King views every bride, he rarely exercises his prerogative, as he is a selective man who prefers the company of woman finer than mere peasants such as yourself, but you’re still nervous, your heart beating at a rapid flutter inside your chest.

The guards do not speak as they lead you past the castle gates, making your way into the building through a hidden side entrance, climbing a long, narrow stone staircase that takes you into an open corridor. You stop in front of a large wooden door, and one of the men raps on it sharply.

An impatient-sounding voice calls out, “Enter,” and the guards open the door, motioning you inside. You note they both are resting their hands on the hilt of their swords now, as if wary that you will need further persuasion. You wonder briefly what happens to brides who choose to fight their fate, but then decide you would prefer not to be burdened with such a knowledge.

You walk into the room, guards close beside you, and observe a man, sitting behind a desk, writing. It’s the King, and in the past you have only ever seen him from a distance, dressed in his full ceremonial robes, an elaborately bejewelled crown perched atop his head, but this evening he is clad in ordinary clothes: a white shirt unlaced to expose the upper part of his broad chest, his dark hair loose, falling in waves over his shoulders.

He is not what you would call a conventionally handsome man, but his features are attractively distinctive, and there’s an air about him that many women of the kingdom seem to find appealing. Perhaps it is ego, or the simple charisma bestowed by the power he wields, but he is a man much desired, and standing before him, you feel yourself begin to understand why.

“Tonight’s bride, your majesty,” says one guard.

The King glances up, an irritated look on his face, and you’re expecting him to dismiss you with barely a wave, as you know he does most of the local girls, but his expression changes as he sees you. His eyes narrow, raking over your body with an appraising, speculative gaze.

“Well,” he says, slowly. “Are you not quite the surprise, pretty one?”

Your breath catches fast in your throat as he stands, looking you up and down.

“Take off her dress,” he orders the guards, and you start to speak, trying to say that if it is deemed necessary, you can remove your own clothes, as you would not wish for your wedding gown to be damaged, but the words are not past your lips before one of the guards is behind you, pulling away your wrap and tearing open your dress. You wince slightly upon hearing the many small buttons clatter on the flagstones as they are ripped away. Your mother spent hours sewing them, wanting your gown to be as fine as your family’s limited resources would allow.

The guard lets the dress fall to the floor, and it pools around your feet like some limp, discarded rag. You stand there in your new chemise, shivering, though the room is not cold.

“Oh yes,” the King says, quiet, almost to himself. He walks a circle around you, murmuring appreciatively.“Yes,” he repeats, more firmly. “Very nice.” He gestures nonchalantly at the guards, saying, “Take her to my chambers. I will be along shortly.”

“Yes, your majesty,” they say, each grabbing one of your arms and dragging you out of the room, so rough you struggle to stay balanced, keep pace with them. You stumble enough that your dainty wedding shoes are kicked off your feet but the guards pay no mind, marching you down the corridor until you reach another door.

One guard pushes you inside. “Wait here,” he says, forcing you further into the room. “And don’t touch anything,” he adds. He pauses for a moment, staring at your chest. Your chemise was supposed to be for your proper wedding night, with your husband, and it is of a finer material than you would ever normally wear, so thin as to be almost transparent.

You fold your arms in front of you, trying to protect the last of your modesty, and the guard licks his lips, lascivious. It is clear he wants to touch you, and you would assume he is only restraining himself for fear of angering the King. He grunts slightly, adjusting the front of his breeches, and then turns to leave.

“We’re right outside, love,” he says. “So don’t even think about trying to go anywhere.” He grins at you, exposing rotting, yellowing teeth, and you shudder as you hear the door close, a bolt sliding shut behind it.

You let out a deep, shaking breath, and look around the room. It is not quite as large as you would have expected the King’s chambers to be, but it is still most certainly bigger than your own entire home. There is a fire burning bright in the grate, and there are several large, cushioned chairs positioned in front of it. But by far the most elaborate object in the room is the bed. It is enormous; covered in fine, decorative carvings so delicate you can’t help but marvel at them, and there is a post rising from each corner, soaring high up to a curtained canopy of rich tapestries. The sheets seem to be of smooth silk, and there are thickly beautiful furs piled carelessly at the bed’s foot.

You would like to examine it more closely, perhaps see if it is as soft as it looks, but you do not dare do anything except stand meekly in the center of the room, waiting. A dreadful anticipation fills you, growing stronger by the minute, and you almost wish the King would hurry, simply so your ordeal can be done with sooner. This will all seem like some terrible dream when it is finished, you are sure, and you will return to your life, forget this night ever occurred.

But for now your fate is sealed, and when, at last, you hear the door open, you gather your courage, telling yourself that whatever is to happen, it will be over by the morning. Surely you can endure until then? You are not so certain, but there is no choice to be had.

The King enters, not saying anything as he strolls past you, seating himself on the end of the bed. You stand there, in front of him, watching as he bends to pull off his boots, tossing them aside. He sits up, leaning back on his arms, regarding you for a few long minutes, and you remain still, trembling slightly, feeling almost trapped by the intensity of his gaze.

When he finally speaks, it is to ask, “Have you remained pure for your husband?”

“Yes, majesty,” you say, and it is true. You have always found carnal temptations not so difficult to resist, preferring to focus on your future rather than distract yourself with the more fleeting, insubstantial satisfactions of the body.

The King nods, seemingly pleased. “Take that off,” he says, and you hesitate for a second or two, but there is nothing to be done, so you pull your chemise over your head, letting it fall to the floor beside you. You stand naked, fighting the urge to cover yourself, knowing that for this night, your body is not yours, belonging to the King, as is his lawful right.

He stares at you, eyes darkly menacing, moving to slowly rub the bulge that is forming in the front of his breeches, the heel of his hand stroking over it. He licks his lips, and you try to remember to keep breathing.

“On the bed for me,” he says, rising to his feet, his voice slightly hoarse. You obey, walking over, clambering up ungracefully and then lying back, the silken sheets soft as water against your skin, the sensation making you shiver, used as you are to the coarse bed coverings of your home.

Your hands are clenched at your sides, every muscle in your body stiff with tension, and you are expecting him to simply climb on top of you, forcefully have his way, but instead he sits beside you, staring down at your body. He reaches out, trailing his fingertips slowly up over your stomach, between your breasts, lingering at the base of your throat in a caress that, under any other circumstance, you would perhaps label tender.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asks.

“Yes, majesty,” you reply, truthfully.

He laughs at your answer, short and sharp. “I like that,” he says. “That you do not lie to me.”

He leans over you, pressing his mouth to yours, and while it is soft, undemanding kiss, you keep your lips closed tight, praying he will not ask for any more, wanting to avoid at least one violation on this night. But the King pulls away, looking at you.

“I hope we both understand,” he says, “that this will be far more pleasant if you do not resist me.” And there is enough of a warning in his voice that you comprehend his meaning, and this time, when he shifts towards you, you part your lips, allowing him to plunder your mouth fully, his tongue slipping inside, moving in ways you would never have even dreamed of.

When you were first betrothed, you allowed your now-husband to kiss you in this manner, but you did not enjoy it, finding his attempts clumsy and primitive, his tongue fat and lifeless in your mouth, but the King’s kiss is nothing that even resembles those efforts. This is like quicksilver, alive with warmth inside you, and you feel as if you are being consumed, in the best possible way. Your head is spinning with confusion, and, without even thinking of it, you find yourself responding in kind, your own tongue against the King’s, licking slippery and heated.

You hear yourself make a small, strange noise, and the King sits back, a bemused smirk hovering over his still-wet lips. “Perhaps you are not so innocent, then,” he says, thoughtfully, and you blush, knowing what he is intimating.

He speaks no further, pulling off his shirt, letting it fall aside as he shakes his hair back off his face, over his shoulders. His body is sculpted with muscle, more so than any working man you have ever seen, and he is strangely hairless, his skin so smoothly unmarked you cannot stop yourself from staring. For a brief moment you are tempted to touch him, suddenly somehow longing to know what such skin would feel like under your hands, but you push the thought away,

He kneels up over you, his legs at both sides of your ribcage, and unlaces his breeches, pushing them lower, revealing a thatch of dark, curly hair, and then… you swallow, trying to steady your breath as your heart begins to race, pounding inside your chest.

You’re not some sheltered princess born of nobility; you have older brothers, and you grew up on a farm with breeding animals, but still, it’s something, to see a man’s… member, you know is the more polite word, though prick or cock is what people mostly say, but to see it in this state, this close, is not a thing you have ever experienced.

It’s long and thick, jutting out from the King’s body like something proud, and he runs his hand over it, stroking from root to tip, up and down. He carelessly takes hold of your wrists with his other hand, and though his grasp is relatively loose, you can feel the strength of him, the physical power barely contained as he pins your hands over your head, leaning in, guiding it, guiding his cock you make yourself think, toward your mouth.

And it’s not… you know why you are here, and you accept that, but this is not an act you had expected would be required of you, and you can’t help panicking, struggling beneath him. You turn your face away from him, kicking your feet as best you can, arms held fast.

“Stop it,” he spits out. “Stop fussing.” He tightens his legs either side of you, keeping you in place with ease. “If I’m forced to bring the guards in to restrain you,” he threatens, “then I will let them have their way with you when I’m done, and I promise you, child, they will not be gentle.”

You still, willing yourself to calm, breathing hard, your chest rising and falling.

“There,” he says. “Good girl.” He does not release you, but for the moment he makes no further advances on you. “Have you never taken a man in your mouth before?” he asks.

“No, majesty,” you whisper. It is relatively common among the girls you know, but it is not a practice you would ever indulge in willingly.

“Well, then,” the King says. “What a find you are, my pet.” He looks down at you, a smug smile hovering brief over his features.“Perhaps we will begin more slowly,” he says. “Just a taste, yes?”

He takes hold of himself once more, drawing his cock across your lips, and you whimper with distress, but you do as you are bidden, pursing your mouth to kiss it.

“Yes,” he breathes out, encouraging. “Now suckle at it, put that pretty little tongue of yours to good use.” You inhale, steeling yourself, and do as he says, sucking at the tip, opening your mouth enough to take the topmost part of it in. It is not so bad, you think in surprise, sucking with a touch more vigor. And the act is not at all what you would have thought it to be; the taste of the King’s cock a mixture of salt and something sweet and clean, the thick feel of it in your mouth oddly natural, as if that is where it belongs.

You close your lips around the width of it, daring to move your tongue a little, unsure as to what is the proper technique, but your attempts seem to be more than acceptable, as the King moans, freeing your wrists, pushing more of himself past your lips. “Mind your teeth,” he says, and you are careful, even as his cock fills your mouth. There is a shamefully pleasurable ache beginning to throb at your core, and without thinking of it, your hands move as if of their own accord, coming to rest on the King’s thighs. You can feel the heavy bulk of him even through his breeches, and your fingers curl over his form, curious. “You like that,” says the King, softly, almost wondrously. He removes his cock from your mouth, sitting back, stroking himself once more, fist moving rapidly.

For a moment you think he is going to spend himself over your face, but instead he stops, then climbs down from the bed. He pulls off his breeches, facing away from you, and you can see the shape of his buttocks, rising high and firm behind him. His thighs are as huge and powerful as they felt under your hands, but they are smooth, hairless as his chest is. It would seem the only places where hair remains on his body are his head and beard and around his cock. It is a curious affectation, you muse to yourself, perhaps a current fashion of the nobility, but it is also strangely attractive to you.

Now fully and completely naked, he lies himself down next to you, on his side, licking his fingers thoroughly before reaching down between your legs. He smiles in delight as he feels the wetness there. “Oh,” he says, the word almost crooned. “You did like that, didn’t you?” You close your eyes, humiliated at your body’s betrayal, but the King only laughs. And yet his amusement does not seem to be unkindly meant. He is obviously gratified by your response to him, quite clearly so, and you feel the smallest, guiltiest sense of pride at being able to serve him in this manner.

His fingers explore your most private places with casually expert skill, caressing you with unhurried precision, finding the nub of your pleasure without the slightest fumbling or hesitation. He rubs circles over it with his two middle fingers, and you gasp, your hips arching up off the bed at the sensation. He watches you, your reactions, adjusting the pressure and pattern of his touch in accordance with your responses, and you can feel yourself opening up to him, the ache inside you deepening into a desperate yearning, longing for what you have never known you could need so very badly.

“Do you want me?” the King asks, and you nod in reply, unable to say the words aloud, but it seems that is answer enough, as he is quickly on top of you, positioning himself between your legs, and you swallow, trembling with nervous anticipation, breathing as you feel him, feel his cock, right there.

There’s a quick, sharp pain as he slowly enters you, but it is not so bad as you would have thought, and as he seats himself fully inside you and you adjust to the feeling, the hurt fades away to nothing, forgotten, replaced by a new, unfamiliar urgency, and you whimper, helpless to resist it.

“Oh yes,” the King says, and he begins to move his hips, cock thrusting in and out of you, the pace of it at first almost careful, but then with an increasing amount of force and speed. “God,” he mutters, licking at your neck, tongue hot and needy on your skin,“what a tight little cunt you have, pretty.” You could never have imagined you would find such crude words exciting or even flattering, but they spark something within you, and you also start to move, your body finding its own, instinctive rhythm to meet the King’s.

Something begins to build inside you, an intensity so violent it is as if you cannot contain it, and you feel as if you are balanced at the edge of a great height, about to fall but certain you will fly. You cry out as it peaks, clinging to the King as your body spasms around him, heat sparking through you.

The King throws his head back, mouth open in silent ecstasy for a long, endless moment, before his weight falls down onto you, and he lies there, spent. His hair is damp and curled with sweat, and for a minute he does not move, but then he shifts slightly, just enough for you be more comfortable beneath him.

After a little time has passed, you dare to speak. “Majesty,” you say, your voice tremulous to ask so boldly, “may I have leave to return to my husband?” You are not entirely sure you wish to depart, but you know this is merely an interlude, something that cannot last. “Now that my duty is done?”

And he does not reply, lifting his head to gaze down at you before he once more claims your mouth, wide and hungry, and this time you do not hesitate in your response to him, kissing him back with a lust and fervor equal to his own until he shifts away.

“The night,” the King says. “I have the night.” He kisses you again, fierce, almost vicious, nipping at your bottom lip with sharp teeth. “I am your master until dawn, my sweet, and my pleasure is far from being satisfied. Understood?”

“Yes, majesty,” you reply, trying to sound meek, but your blood is already aflame with anticipation, and you are impatient for more.

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