"Right!"

I can feel the muscles at the corners of my mouth beginning to tremble, the sickly rictus of a courtly smile taxing the limits of my endurance. Hour after hour of receptions, and stuffy clothes with all too many sprinklings of filigree and finery, and nervous glances from courtiers and maids alike, and I'm surprised I'm still even sane, let alone sensate. Still, I have you by my side, even if I can tell you're every inch as uncomfortable, and that, in my view, makes this all a good deal more tolerable.

True, we might've have fudged a few facts on how we met - "Your Dearest Highnesses, I met the love of my life balls-deep in a tavern maid at the Runny Oak Inn" isn't traditionally how one presents this sort of thing in polite society - but they seem to have taken it well enough.

The faintings were a little much, though, honestly.

Our eyes meet with a surreptitious slide across the table, and I roll my own lavishly, glancing at the open door at the faraway end of the great hall before slipping back into a mask of polite attentiveness to whatever the Assistant Under-Lord of the Purser is blathering on about.

It's better him talking then them, at least. My mother had been a torture, all sniffs and upturned nose at the thought of a lady having leisure pursuits like "riding through the countryside in search of mayhem and merriment" or "a good fuckin' quest" instead of the daintier things like needlework and poisonings. My father had mostly just nodded along, and, I recount with a smug wink, I think I'll be winning the wager on whether that was him sleeping or not.

A wager that should turn out quite nicely, now that I think about it. A nice little chamber tucked away in the bowels of the castle, firelight, me tucked away heavily inside your bowels with gripping hands and rutting slams and...

Ah.

Got to be a bit of a princely sort here, I suppose.

"-are you, dear?"

Gods. That's Mother for you, slipping in a snide comment when you least expect it. Probably something vaguely racist, given the way she went on about dwarves, half the time, before I finally packed my things and left to seek fortune, glory, and sheer blessed quiet on the frontier.

"Excuse me?"

"Your parents, dear - they weren't, ah, naturally able to, er, produce a beautifully natural fruit of the womb, were they?"

I can see that look in your eyes, the telltale furrowing of the oak table beneath tightly-gripping fingers. Granted, your adorable tendency to be a bit blunt is why I love you, after all, but... Hrm.

With a sigh, I stand up from the table, wrapping an arm around your waist and tugging you playfully upright, a teasing nudge of my hip as I speak inviting the participation of an accomplice.

"That's quite rude of you, Mother," I huff, willing myself to act indignant. "I'd think that a devoted follower of the Eight such as yourself would be quite aware of how crass the elven folk consider it to question the workings of Eualiar. Especially where matters of child are concerned."

A sly wink slips your way.

"In fact, it's such an affront to the Light, Mother, I feel my darling and I must away, to pray away the affront you've caused the gods. The chapel is still to the south, is it not?"

And with that, I whisk us both from the hall, scraps of silken nonsense fluttering behind me as I make a beeline to the north.

There's one way I know, to let the tension out, when it's been a trying day. One you're quite fond of, if I know you at all, and, in between breaths, I can't help but let my hand slide around yours, holding it tight as I kick open some forgotten stable door and pull you inside.

Our charmingly disreputable prince and his definitely not-an-orc paramour may not be your traditional fantasy power couple - but hey, they have a certain amount of fun in their own non-traditional way, don't you think?

As always, I'm open for all manner of ideas, and there's loads more prompts in my history if you're curious. Thanks for reading!

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