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I'm Rose (she/her) but you can call me princess 💕
I'm happily taken by my knight 👑
I'm omni and I LOVEE masc people
I also reblog fandom content, which I don't tag by default. If you're curious about which fandom I'm reblogging from send me a message/ask!
I'm a sub&bottom, bordering on being a pillow princess but like 90% 👉👈
Anons are very much welcome! Tell me about your fantasies, ask me questions or praise me 💖✨
My writing is tagged as # rose princess royal writings
BEING PUT IN ANY DOM ROLE, choking, watersports/scat, feet, knifeplay, face slapping, misogyny as a form of degradation, being called puppy/whore/bitch/mommy
Knight who strokes himself to thoughts of his princess every night.
He starts slowly at first, tentative, as if he’s not sure he can go through with it, as if he hasn’t several times already.
Same song and dance, candles snuffed, ring finger gliding over himself straining through his trousers, the barest stimulation.
He thinks on the first day he was charged to her, how she barely paid him any mind. Dismissive, almost. He’d taken it personally then, though now he knows she’s simply quite- buttoned up.
And what he wouldn’t give to unbutton her.
The fingers flirting with his waistline now worked diligently at the buttons of his pants. One hand is non committal, almost an accident. Two would show far too much initiative, agency.
So he toils and throbs, keeping as still as he may with thoughts of her face dancing behind his eyelids.
Finally free, he grips himself slowly, softly.
She was quite witty, his princess. He was reminded now of an odd memory one might not typically call upon in a moment of such eroticism, and yet it came to him yet.
She’d asked for his accompaniment to the stables, where she’d sent for the fastest stallion. He had stuck with his own horse, sure that the princess had intentions only for a brief gallop in the midday.
She did not. She’d raced him hard and fast, and while his steed was trusty, it was no match for the best bred in the royal stables.
It was now that he understood why his mind had brought the memory to him in such a time. The way she laughed ahead of him, the sun in her hair, and most pertinent, the way she bounced in the saddle.
His fingers tightened around the shaft, keeping pace with her gallop in his mind. Up, down, up, down.
Tighter still, hips aching to move but he wouldn’t let himself rut into his hand for her like a beast, no, this was simply- a lapse in judgment. Anything more animalistic would preclude him from her service.
He wondered in fact if she’d even want him in her charge had she seen him like this.
As he pictured her face his hand slowed, grip loosing. Each stroke grew long, deliberate.
He wondered what she might say if she were here in front of him, if a rose shade might show itself to her cheeks. He’d seen it before when she’d had the displeasure of hearing him trade conversation with a servant about their respective first times. The poor boy had so much to learn, and he’d thought the princess would’ve been held just a trifle longer by the fitting of her gown.
God, she looked so pretty like that, coming around the corner all flushed and in that pale pink dress.
He wondered if she’d slap him, right here and now- he wondered if it would even stop him
How she might react if it didn’t stop him, if he’d smile and pick up the pace, bold and with the knowledge that this degenerate display could very well lead him to the gallows, positively uncaring and perhaps unwilling to stop considering his lady was stood aside him with those flushed cheeks and eyes pouring over him, darting up and down his body, her breathing low and quick like a field mouse-
That thought alone almost did him in, but it’d be a disgrace to summon her in his consciousness and not linger for a little while longer at least, and so he removed his hand, thrusted twice against his will and into nothing, then resumed.
He wondered what his lady might think about when she finds herself similarly struggling, a pang of jealousy hitting him hard and fast. He almost eschewed the notion entirely in service of a simpler fantasy but then he wouldn’t’ve been graced by the mental image of her on her face, palming between her legs and splayed out in her royal bedspread, drooling into the blankets with his name in the back of her throat.
He wondered, if this vision were real, and he had been there, what might he do for his lady? Certainly he’d shed himself of his cloth and sheaths, and certainly he’d flip her to her backside and bury his face between her legs.
He tightens his grip and bucked his hips now, forgetting his earlier judgment against the impulse. Or perhaps he simply couldn’t fight it any longer- still, he imagined her taste. Fresh sweat, the kind that smells so good on her when she’s in need of an escort from the summer gardens back to her bed, the heat having gotten to her.
He was conscious now of how defenseless she’d been then, passed out and lain to sheets.
Had he been a worse man…
Images of her neck flashed, her chest heaving, lips parted, eyes fluttering open to find him at her back, hand holding her hip in place as he thrusted absentmindedly into her- which would she do first? Moan, or scream?
That did him in, with a grunt his abdomen tightened and a rope of white shot itself on to his bare chest. He caught the breath he wasn’t keen he’d lost, then thought to clean himself up.
During which point he’d gotten side tracked by the image of her doing that part herself with her tongue pressed flat to him, dragging up his-
Well, it seems now he’s not quite done with his princess on this night.
the eroticism of anonymity, to be able to dance and laugh and touch freely with no fear of reputation or rank or societal expectations
to flirt and tease with someone who you think you know, maybe by the color of their eyes or the dimples when they smile but maybe they are a total stranger.
no one could say who, exactly, the princess disappeared with at the ball, too many sultry shadows and swirling skirts and the dark mask concealing their face, but they all know she left hand in hand with someone in the middle of a fast-paced waltz, everyone spinning madly about the room.
but the maids still gossip about finding her majesty pressed against the wall with her legs in the air, skirts hiked over her hips while a handsome stranger curled their fingers deeper inside her.
the waiters recall watching her sink to her royal knees before a devilish-looking knight.
no one could say who, exactly she was with, not with those masks.
just finished a long session in the training yard only to see out of the corner of my eye the princess has been watching from her tower and certainly saw my helm hair god that's so embarrassing i can never show my face again helm stays on forever from here on out
As princess of the kingdom I retire to my bedroom after a long day of serving the people. I lock eyes with my loyal knight as he guards the door to my bedroom, I linger for a moment in the doorframe, a silent invite. Through his visor I can see his hungry eyes, lit by the warm candlelight, as he follows me to my bed. Unlacing my dress, leaving me almost bare in my chemise. His gauntlet cold against my blushing skin. My loyal knight, mine only.
everyone seems to enjoy the idea of a submissive knight, but I keep thinking that a dominant one is much more fun.
an inexperienced, shy princess who watched him protect her with such ferocity and devotion it took her breath away, who can't stop thinking about the way he looked at her after, and is too embarrassed to admit how she craves his presence and the thought of him makes her a little faint.
she knows a little of what happens on a marriage night, but not enough to know how to curb the ache between her legs when he trains, or escorts her closely, or guards outside her door. she knows enough to try with her fingers, knows enough that she thinks of him pulling been the gauzy curtains around her bed, but not enough to know how to ask.
she thinks he would, sometimes. if she asked. shkw her, help her, but she's like a baby deer, a nervous rabbit when he looks at her. she just hopes he knows why
- 🕊️
Welcome to court little dove. You read the room beautifully... but I have to smile at the irony of a shy little princess daydreaming about a man who has seen war. There is a delicious, dangerous contrast in what you crave isnt there? You look at a man who could easily break a person with his bare hands and your instinct isn't to run its to wonder how those same hands would feel if they were being impossibly, painstakingly gentle with your soft skin.
You describe yourself like a baby deer, a nervous rabbit trembling under my gaze. It is a striking image, and it calls to something very primal in me.
As a knight my nature is to control, to command, and to conquer. My quarters hold all manner of implements both naughty and nice and my hands are well versed in the weight of rope, knowing exactly how to bind a captive securely or hold a fragile royal perfectly still. But dominance isn't just about force.
I see two beautiful paths for a princess like you.
Sometimes, a delicate royal needs a safe sanctuary where she can be the one to hold the reins for a little while, exploring her own hidden depths at her own pace while her knight serves as her unshakeable, protective anchor. But other times... other times she just needs to be mastered. She needs that rough knight to step past those curtains, part the veils, and strip away all her embarrassment without her ever having to find the words to ask.
So tremble all you want when I look at you, little dove. I know exactly why your breath catches when I escort you through the corridors. Just know that when the time comes to cure that ache between your legs, these calloused hands will touch you with a *reverence* that will make you feel entirely safe right up until the moment I decide to show you exactly how helpless you really are in my grasp.
princess trying desperatly to hold back her moaning as her loyal knight overstimulates her sensitive skin. she had been begging for this all day, and her loyal knight was eager to let her have all the pleasure she could desire and more. her loyal knight who loves seeing the princess unravel under his touch.
Fuck academia, I need to go work my muscles into the ground each day for the benefit of a princess who will giggle at my exhausted form in the dirt and then help clean me up so I can enjoy her presence while we both read til the nights end
Just got a new knight! I sure hope his unwavering loyalty, mindless devotion, and tendency to kneel before me to kiss the palm of my hand before he commits atrocities in my name doesn't awaken anything in me.
I wanna hold knights I wanna snuggle knights I wanna fuck knights I wanna make knights crazy about me I wanna make out with knights I wanna make knights scream and gasp and cry and cum I wanna-
contents: masturbation (male), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, hints of hyperspermia, Clark is the medival version of a panty stealer (steals your handkerchief to masturbate with it)
words: 1.5k
a/n: part one of knight!Clark is here! I hope you enjoy and stay tuned for part 2 where Clark finds out you might have spent your nights the same way he has.. 😈
You were the forbidden fruit that tempted him every day.
His beautiful princess, so close to him yet so unattainable. Every night, he chastised himself for the improper thoughts he had about you - but that never stopped him from shamefully taking his painfully hard, leaking cock out of his breeches and into his rough palm, stroking himself to his dirty thoughts of you until he spilled all over his tummy. His mind wandered to every part of you he wished he could touch: Your lips, your thighs, your hips, the swell of your breasts, concealed by expensive fabrics..
It was a feat hard enough to keep himself from acting on his desires when he was around you, he could not stop himself once he was alone. It wasn't his fault you were so tempting, like a sin sent into the world just for him. Every day, he had to resist it.
When he was introduced to you as your new guard and you had given him a heart-warming smile, he had - just like a true knight was supposed to - dropped to one knee and kissed your outstretched hand in devotion, resisting the urge to pull you flush against his armor and taste the inside of your mouth.
He had resisted it when he had protected you from an attacker, his strong arm around your waist as you clung to him afterwards, your tears wetting the metal chestplate of his armor. One of his hands has still been gripping his sword, but his other hand drew soft circles on your back. Though his hand had not wandered like he wanted to.
He had resisted it when you had asked him to dance in the gardens at night. The banquet the king had been holding had been too loud and too crowded for your liking, instead drawing him into the gardens that were only illuminated by the light of the full moon. The laughter and the music from the festives could be heard outside and you begged him to dance - surely he would not let the princess go to bed without having danced a single dance?
But he had resisted it. No matter how sweetly you had looked at him, no matter how many "accidental" touches had been exchanged between the two of you. It was his duty, after all. He could not risk it, not risk you and your precious reputation. That was what he had been sworn to protect.
But now, in the privacy of his own chamber, he allowed himself to stoop to a level he never thought he would. It went against everything he had ever thought himself to be: Honorable, considerate, most of all - respectful. There was nothing respectful about the way he imagined how you would feel wrapped around the fat, weeping tip of his cock. He could practically feel how wet you would be, how tight, how it would feel to glide through your folds - he never lasted long.
It was obscene how much cum poured out of him, ropes upon ropes of his sticky, white seed covering his tummy, the rippling muscles as he heaved breath after breath, his hand, the curly hairs at the base of his cock. Sometimes Clark wondered if it was more now that he thought of you or if he had simply always cum this much. Surely that was not normal. But before he could get a hold of his thoughts, his length would jump again in his hand, still demanding more.
One round was not enough. It was never enough. He could never stop until he had imagined all the ways he wanted to have you: First, you, in his bed, on your tummy, your back facing him. He always told himself that it wasn't so bad, that when he didn't imagine your face, it was less dishonorable. That he would stop after that. Every time.
But he never did. And neither did he now. He hand stilled for just a heartbeat before it came down again, stroking the entire length of his cock in one smooth, agonizing stroke. He was oversensitive, but he needed you. His body could not be satisfied with just one round.
So, he imagined your mouth. Not your face, no. He avoided even glancing at his cock as to not compel his mind to create the image before his inner eye: You, on your knees, hair tangled, sucking on his fat cock, unable to get him entirely into your delicate mouth with how big he was. How you would look up at him with your sweet eyes. How your cheeks would be warm to the touch from your love making.
No, he would not imagine that. He screwed his eyes shut with all his might and just imagined how you would feel, how it would be to be inside of you. Your hot mouth wrapped around him so carefully, bobbing up and down, doing your best to take him, choking yourself on his length -
That's what pushed him over the edge, again.
His second high always left him panting, his skin glistening with a sheen of sweat. But his cock was not satisfied yet. Sometimes Clark thought he was carrying an insatiable monster in between his legs with how greedy it was. But there was nothing he could do but pick up his hand again, shaking, to come down on his length again.
By this point it was almost always too much, his tip red and angry, oversensitive to the point of pain that would bring tears to his eyes. Still, he could not stop. He tried to stop himself, every time, because he knew what he would imagine now.
It was like his body moved on its own. He pushed himself up onto his knees and turned around so that he was kneeling on his bed, facing the headboard. Then, he got down on all fours just to wrap one hand back around his length again, hard, like he was punishing himself for what he was about to, what he was about to imagine.
Slowly, he reached underneath his pillow with his free hand, his head now pressed into his pillow, and pulled out a handkerchief - your handkerchief. The one that you had dropped once and had probably forgotten about. But not Clark, no. He had not forgotten about this little piece of you that he hid in his - now filthy - bed. When it happened, he couldn't explain it to himself. The small piece of fabric had slipped from one of your pockets and floated to the ground without you noticing. As your devoted servant, it was his duty to return it to you. But he hadn't. Instead, he had picked it up and pushed it deep into his own pocket, without a single conscious thought crossing his mind.
Then, he didn't understand why he would do that. Keep your possession for himself. But that same night, he understood. The same way he understood now, as he brought it up to his nose and inhaled deeply, letting the faint remnants of your scent cloud his senses. It was perverted, he told himself, for him to desire you, the kingdom's precious, perfect princess, in such a filthy state: You, sweet and gentle you, completely bare before him, legs spread and back arched, those breasts that he tried not to ogle every day brushing against his chest and he pushed inside of you, both of your foreheads pressed together.
It was over now, he knew. Once he started imagining your face, scrunched up in the pleasure only he could give you, he was gone. Clark told himself that it was just because of your handkerchief, because of how overwhelming your scent was, but he knew that was not it. He knew that deep inside of him, there was a part that desired you so much it would not relent until it got what it wanted.
But he chose not to think about it. He never did. Instead, he gripped himself harder, buried his face completely in you handkerchief as he fucked his hips into his palm like it was your pussy. His arm stayed still, only his hips moved, again and again and again, the obscene slap of his massive hips meeting his hand was loud enough to echo through his room, but he did not care.
You usually so composed knight was too lost in the pleasure that the image of you and your pretty body gave him to care about anything but. He was moaning your name into his pillow, drool smearing onto your precious handkerchief, his hips dropping to the mattress to fuck even harder into his palm and his sheets.
His come from his earlier releases was sticky against his skin but he didn't even notice, nor did he care that he was smearing it all over his usually pristine sheets. All that mattered was the image of you, ready and willing to take all of him. Oh, how good you would feel, gripping him so tight, clawing at his back, moaning his name, right into his ear -
His release washed over him in seemingly never ending waves, messing up his bed even further. It left him a panting, sweaty mess, wondering how he could manage to face you tomorrow - and resist your temptation once again.
thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! 🌸 I couldn't resist adding a hint of hyperspermia.. as a treat 🤭
🍓💕🌸Princess🌸💕🍓 @roseateprincess - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
