I don't really know where this came from. I never write this pairing. But I needed a break from my philosophy homework or else my head was going to explode.
She's known it was wrong since the very first time. Even as he enveloped her in his arms and drowned her in his kisses. Even as she felt the bed beneath her and their hands roamed, exploring bodies otherwise off limits.
She protested, albeit weakly.
"She's my friend."
They never say her name.
He kisses her stomach. "Kings keep mistresses all the time," he says, making his way down to her thighs, leaving a trail of kisses that burn.
I'm not your mistress. And you're not the King! She wants to shout, but instead she says, "your father doesn't."
"My father and mother," he says drily, "are in love." He moves away from her thigh, coming up to her neck, his lips telling stories against her collarbone.
"My father also got to choose who he married. And besides- I'm not married yet."
"So will this stop when you're married?" She asks. He kisses her. She knows it's a sign to shut up, but she goes on anyway.
"If you did get to choose-" his lips are smothering her, begging her not to ask the question, but she squeezes it out past his lips. "Would you choose me?"
He doesn't answer.
But that's probably a good thing.