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You’re always so… adorable when you’re frustrated. Romeo thinks that especially when you have a sword in your hand and an opponent you can’t parse. Sweat drips from your forehead, seeping down the bridge of your nose into the curve of your nostril. You keep swinging the blade down like you’re trying to whack a stubborn spider. That won’t be enough to defeat him. Sensing this, you cling to your last resort, casting your blade aside. And he admits—he admits it!—he was caught a little off guard when you spring forward and tackle him. Spiraling into the distance, his sword joins yours, lost somewhere in sprawling blades of green. The ground disappears and the blue sky and blazing sun anchors into view, beating down on him.
This year, the summer that falls over the Rose Estate swelters long, breaking records upon records, the blossoming rose bushes holding color well into what should have been autumn. Like them, the trees surrounding the clearing where he and Carlo like to train are full of crisp, green leaves. And for Romeo, the grass is toasty against the back of his neck, mimicking the bubbling heat underneath his collar as you straddle him and name your terms of surrender. His head didn’t hit the ground hard enough to cleanse him of his senses, and yet, your mouth catches him more off guard than your tackle did and has done a better job erasing all coherent thought than any flying descent to the solid earth ever could.
“What did you say?”
You bite on your bottom lip again, already puffy from earlier frustration, and mumble lower, “Can I kiss you?” The grass near his head plucks as your nails rake through the dirt. “I won so…”
He fights to piece together his fragmenting breaths, chest heaving and nostrils flaring slightly. What’s gotten into you to dare such a request? Whatever the cause, the adrenaline that once vanished returns with full strength and some extra. Eyes lowering, he glances over the pretty bow of your bite swollen lips, across the round swell of your breasts, to the incredibly small gap where you angle just above his lap.
“Never mind,” you say quickly. “Forget I said anything—”
No. He isn’t letting you off that easily.
“I guess one can be managed,” he answers, trying to play it cool, like it’s not a big deal, failing to do so as the sun bounces off your skin, glistening. “I-If you want to so badly.”
Your doubt melts right into embarrassment, willing embarrassment, but a shyness just the same, and he feels quite proud for bringing it out of you. There’s not really much better feeling than that. Scratch that—there is a better feeling as you shift closer, and the supple cushion of your breasts meets his chest. His heart hammers, unaccustomed to the strange contrast of pebbles stabbing at his back and smooth, delicate fingers cupping his flushed cheeks. Kisses taste like honeysuckle, balmy like grains of sand at the shore below the estate, and everything else in existence his mind hazes too much to remember.
Instinct takes over quicker than he’d like to acknowledge, faster than he can truly think about the consequences. His body reacts automatically, like the curve of your back was always a course his arm was meant to track. His forearm squeezes you in closer, and you make a whiny broken little noise, a whimper rather than a moan, right into his mouth.
Much too soon after he swallows it, you lift away.
Neither of you are quite sure what to say, waiting and watching for the other’s reaction in place of talking. Even without speaking, Romeo loses this unintended staring contest. You make a slight move and squeak when something brushes the inside of your thigh. Romeo groans, squirming underneath you, and he stares at the unashamed bulge that has quite frankly made a debut much too premature for him not to be embarrassed.
He swallows, light eyes flicking back up to you. “It’s a compliment.”
“…Dummy,” you puff out but the smile on your face is relaxed, downright pleased.
You sit back on your knees, lowering until your uniform skirt splays over your thighs, covered in thin dark grayish stockings. The heat from your pussy sinks over the tent of his pants, and his cock twitches, already heavy and swollen, realizing before him that something very promising is on the horizon.
“I’m not hurting you, am I?” you question, eyebrows raised.
Romeo slowly brings his hands to your legs, drawing them as far up as he can. “If you are, it’s in a very good way.”
A very, very good way because the perfect amount of pressure pushes onto his half-hardened cock as you wiggle more comfortably on top of him. Dipping, you steal another kiss. It’s more than the one you claimed as your reward, a kiss you didn’t win but definitely are going to get as he matches the wet, clumsy path of your lips. Your fingers curl against his stomach, seeking out the thin strip of toned skin peeking from underneath his untucked shirt. Gaining confidence from the deep groans resonating from his throat, you slip your tongue into his mouth, so soft and velvety. Romeo is certain now; he’s dreaming. Most certainly dreaming. A wonderful, enrapturing dream as your hips lift slightly, and his hands can finally caress the round, meaty curve of your ass. He draws you forward, your whines intermingling as your sexes meet with slow strokes. His loins are aching again, just savoring how plush you are even with the barest touch. How much better would it be if you could go a little more?
It dawns on him, with the glare of the sun, why the teachers are so adamant about where and when you spend time alone. He always thought they worried too often, a little perverted themselves for thinking that's the only thing you two could do alone together, but he’s starting to understand. When did these feelings start anyway, when did he started to notice the gentle draw of your breath each time you pull away?
Then, he remembers when your lips met his forehead, just once, and possibly it had started even before that. He can’t say. This time though is much better as you give another quick rut of your hips.
“Sweetheart,” he moans, and your sweet hum cracks him, sending an involuntary shudder up his spine. “Do that again for me?” And he wouldn’t dare forget his manners. “Please?”
“You’re making demands even though you lost,” you whisper against his lips.
“Forbid that I’m a pinch of a sore loser,” he fires back, arching into you to prove the point. Bold but worth the risk. “Very sore.”
He hopes that’ll do the trick; otherwise, an embarrassing shameful amount of begging is the last card faced down on the table. The thought of groveling isn’t so bad though, if it’s placed behind the image of you being turned on by his low whines and playful pouts for more friction. The devilish smile coiling on your face tells him you might like that.
“Oh,” you say. You straighten your back, squeezing your legs against his sides. This time, you purposely drag out the slide of your pussy along his straining print. “Like this then?”
The tease in your voice quickens his heartbeat more than the shyness from earlier. Not that he’d ever complain, not about this, in any way that it may come—or that he does.
“A little harder.”
“Masochist.”
“For you, definitely.”
Romeo watches, never breaking eye contact, as you grind on top of him, lips flushed into a deeper color and eyes stormy. Precum collects, sticky and warm. His pants keep the worst of it and the pulsing contained, but his skin tingles underneath. His shaft braces against the divot where your lips meet, but your undergarments keep him from sliding anywhere close to inbetween, to his needy frustrations and yours as your ruts become harder. Whining softly, you focus on a specific area of him, near the top of your pussy if he can tell, like you’re trying to pinpoint something.
“Come on,” he thinks, frustrated, with nothing but his wide palms spreading and slipping up and down your sides to keep him from losing his temper.
Reading his mind, you roll your hips aggressively. You may hesitate, but once your mind is set on something, you go after it with more force than anyone he’s ever met. For that, Romeo is very, very thankful. Pressing his fingers under your skirt, he digs into your hips again, fumbling with your stockings, snagging the little troublesome fabrics with his nails. And God—he should think of his repents to Archbishop Andreus while he still has the frame of mind to know it’s inappropriate to have an unmarried woman on his lap, his head tilting back in the dirt with the forward surge of your hips, and too many unhindered moans constantly buidling and collapsing in the open air.
On second thought, he’s never been much for rules since he was born. They’ll forgive him.
He grinds up into you, following the motions, praying for more sensation, but all he gets is a wet mark forming where his other head begs to be inside you. Then, something wonderfully builds, traveling to his tip, and suddenly something else tenses and pulls not so wonderfully.
“Fuck,” he gasps out, and you stutter to a stop.
“Did you… arrive…?” you ask, somewhat confused, somewhat concerned.
“No,” Romeo groans, eyes closing. “I got a damned leg cramp.”
You blink at him with surprised eyes, then you let out an airy laugh. He pouts. He flexes his toes, twists and stretches slightly, desperately trying to work out the sharp, dreadful pinching in his calf. Meanwhile, you keep laughing, unsettling the quiet around you, and before he can complain, a small snort breaks your voice. Flustered, you cover your mouth. Somehow, despite his spasming muscle betraying him in the worst moment, he laughs as well. Huffing softly, you bow, forehead pressing to his as you stifle your amused pants.
You pull up, just enough for him to catch the light shifting in your pupils, creating a dreamy shadow. The sun shifts, the glow hidden behind your head, halo-ing around your shape. Maybe angels are real, like they say. Taking a shallow breath, he brings his mouth to yours again. He cups the back of your head, anchoring you to him as he swallows your taste, unable to fill himself properly with it. Your hands move, clasping the band of your stockings. You struggle to smooth them off, the band catching around your foot, and you wiggle and kick it the rest of the way off. Frustrated little grunts leave you the entire time as you move to his pants—whatever has possessed him clearly has also made you its victim. A happy victim, as it happens, because you’re so slick when you get everything important out the way. It barely registers that you freed him from his constraints, even after you settle back over him.
“Hey,” you mumble, “Romeo?”
He busies himself, drawing smooth circles against your legs. “Are you nervous?”
“Things… won’t get odd between us, will it?”
Things are already a bit weird, as he sees it, never really imagine being in this position with the girl he’s known since well before his voice deepened. In the same breath, it also feels unspokenly natural to do this together, to lose his virginity to you. “Has it ever been?”
You bow your head. The answer arrives with a slick sensation enveloping his beading head. There’s a little resistance, not quite wet enough as you push onto him, and naturally your face twists with slight discomfort. And shamefully, he curses in his head, foolishly forgetting in his trance that you need a bit more preparation than he does. But you manage to accommodate the rest of the way with a low hiss and misty eyes.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” he asks, and you give a terse nod.
“It stings a bit,” you mumble, “but I’m okay.”
Romeo fumbles with your skirt, folding the edges of it in his hand until he can glimpse where the two of you connect. You squirm to ease out the tightness, his cock stirring inside. He blushes at the sight, feeling tongue-tied, still in disbelief even as the pleasure builds with your wiggling.
Testing the limits, Romeo pushes you up, not even halfway off his cock, and slowly pushes back into you, once, twice, a little higher, a bit faster. You wince when he thrusts back in too deep, too far. Too much. Not yet.
“No?” he pants out. Hoping, hoping that it’ll be a “yes”.
“Let me…” you instruct, trembling fists coming to his chest.
From there, you rock on him carefully, churning him. Your walls squeeze snug around him, slowly adjusting. Warmth sloshes around him, but the sensation isn’t as strong as it had been when he was pumping up. However, more slick leaks onto his shaft, glistening on blond curly hairs as you gyrate and grind your hips with a persistent fervor. You angle that one little spot from before to bump into his pelvis when you rut forward. A soft moan presses out between your pursed lips, your eyes lidding partly.
You’re clearly enjoying whatever sensation you found and far be it from him to distract you and ruin the angelic softness on your face and gentle mewls. There’s not much more he needs to convince him to let you use his cock how you need it. How often he wonders that you think about it, enough to find your pacing that fast? He should ask later, he thinks, watching as your hand goes up and palms at your breast.
It's not like him, being so fuzzy headed, and Romeo reaches to replace your hand with his. He cups the soft mound, marveling. Slowly, he moves to the center of your chest, struggling to unlatch the buttons. He only has enough patience to make enough room for his hand to slip into your shirt and under your bindings. The skin yields immediately, filling his palm, and his fingers brush your nipple. You stiffen, legs tensing with the light massage and pinch of the nub. It pebbles his thumbpad, and your hip arc forward when he lightly twists.
“You don’t mind, do you?” he asks but he’s already bracing one hand against your hip and applying pressure up, threatening to thrust as you lift with him. This time, it’s much easier to pull from your heat and sink back into it, and your moans greet him instead of the discomfort from earlier.
That’s a good enough sign to keep going.
And he does, watching the slow drag of his cock. In and out. In and out. Until the pleasure is coming in one continuous wave, and he rides it all the way through, mindlessly chasing after your heat and the spongey wall that teases the head of his cock whenever you take him in to the hilt. He pushes his hand forward, trying to return some of the pressure you had been seeking with your earlier rocking.
“Romeo,” you whimper, something finally breaking, something he’s doing right as you bounce on him with greater enthusiasm.
Biting down his groan, his loses himself, drowning in the sound of you smacking against his lap, and the deepening groans coming from your chest. Before he can think about it, his hips jerk, and he’s spilling his seed into you. It paints your walls, spasming tight around him as your own rush intermingles with his. His thrusts slow, and you take back the pace, grinding onto him again, low whimpers still marking your orgasm. The last bits of his cum is milked out.
Romeo breathes hard, spent, loose, and higher than any training session has ever left him.
Romeo.
“You two—”
Romeo blinks up, finding the harsh sun hidden behind a mop of brunette hair. You look up with him, focus completely on Carlo. Gulping, Romeo looks to where you’re seated on him, barely covered. Your union can’t be hidden though. The moment you move, his softened cock slips from you, still flushed pink from the lingering aftereffects of what you’ve just done.
Romeo.
“You two,” Carlo begins. Somehow, not angry or jealous, but maybe a little disappointed. “Couldn’t wait ten minutes for me to join?”
Romeo’s body immediately relaxes, his head turning to the sky, his hands still on your thighs. This may be the best day of his life.
“Romeo!”
A hiss wakes him from his dream—a dream he had told himself was a dream—and somehow, he’s still disappointed to find out he had been right as he turns and spots Carlo watching him from his own bed, all nice and cuddled up in his sheets and pillow, soft and doe-eyed in his grogginess. Romeo could almost squeeze him honestly.
“Are you okay?” Carlo asks hoarsely. “You’re being loud.”
Romeo breathes in, hand to his stomach to remind himself the dream is over, but the pressure still between his legs is overly too real still. “I’m fine.” A lie. He’s not fine, but it would be better for Carlo not to find out what he had been dreaming of. And yourself for that matter. “Had a nightmare.”
“You want to talk about?”
“No, it’s fine.”
Carlo nods, then his eyes find the light that cascades into the room through the window. Romeo can help but notice how his deep brown eyes reflect and brighten in the glow. “Breakfast probably started,” Carlo mumbles, reluctantly rolling from bed.
“You go ahead,” Romeo says. “I’ll come later.”
Carlo nods, moving to change his clothes, and Romeo sits there in silence, pretending to fall back asleep until the door closes, and privacy finally returns.
He pushes down his sheets, and as he thought, he’s still stiff and standing, his cock searching for a touch that hadn’t been real. He can't offer it that without throwing himself onto the fire. He can offer it something though. Not the same, never the same, but something as he pushes his hand between his legs. He curls his fingers around the side, leaving no room as wraps his fist around it.
He shouldn’t especially not to the thought of either of you. Still, he lets his eyes slip close and lays his head back in the spot it had woke up in, hoping to recapture some of the dream, no matter how hazy or half-dreamt. His fist twists around his cock, pumping. The foreskin follows along, and he pinches and massages the smooth dome of the head. The slit beads with cum, leaking approvingly as he presses tight circles into it. You probably wouldn’t like it if he came inside of you. It wouldn’t be fair to you, dangerous, but that’s what he thinks about when he spills over and translucent white coats his finger.
Romeo lifts his hand up, sighing as he opens and closes his fingers. A lot came out this time.
Getting up, he wipes his hands off on his underwear. Then wonders if he’d be able to shower before breakfast. He has to regardless.
Eventually, he does make it to breakfast before it ends, just in time to get a meal and find a place next to you and across from Carlo. He doesn’t really feel like eating though.
“What wrong, Romeo?” you ask, eyes big with worry. “Didn’t sleep well?”
“Something like that,” Romeo says, pretending to find more enthusiasm in his food. It’s porridge… He hates porridge. “It’s nothing to worry about, I think I just slept on my neck bad. It can mess with your mind, you know.” He stretches and rubs out his neck. Silence fills in the space between you despite the noise in the air. Then, your bowl scrapes the table almost unnoticeably. Very slightly, you edge closer to him. Romeo huffs softly, nearly smiling as your pinky ventures from the rest of your fingers to press slightly against his, not as subtle as you probably think. “What about you?”
“Nothing to complain about thankfully.”
Romeo smiles when you do, genuinely does. You don’t seem to have good dreams often. Then, Romeo shifts his sights to Carlo, who also plays around with the bowl in front of him. Carlo couldn’t possibly know, but Romeo feels a bead of sweat on his neck anyway.
“I… had a good dream.”
“Don't keep us in suspense,” you urge, teasing.
Carlo mumbles, head tilting to hide away, "You were in it.”
You hold your shoulders higher, spoon sinking into your bowl as you let it go. “Me?” you ask again, and Carlo nods. “What were we doing?”
Romeo shoves a spoonful in his mouth to bury his groan.
“I had to brush your hair for you.”
“You did my hair?”
“…You kept messing it up,” Carlo says, sighing a bit, ears tinted pink. You find more interest on the opposite wall than anything in front of you. Romeo grins, his appetite returning as he watches you two fail to tip toe into a different conversation. He was right to keep it to himself; things are better this way.
Carlo glances at him, face falling into a frown. Shoving his cheek in his palm, Carlo pouts and pushes shapes into his porridge. Romeo’s chest tightens again, questioning if maybe Carlo figured it out after all.
For Carlo, the truth isn’t that simple either. But Carlo couldn’t exactly tell you that Romeo woke him up before he got to the part where you say, “I do.”