#imma need someone to put me in a straitjacket and throw me into a padded cell

[getouyuri]

does anyone else feel like a raging homosexual rn (snippet of princess fem!rafayel x royal bodyguard fem!reader yuri that I’m writing rn)

“Here we are,” you say, breaking the silence with words that don’t necessarily need to be spoken, but you feel that you need to say something, for some reason. Maybe it's the tension you’ve felt all day, watching suitor after suitor take those pretty painted hands of Rafayel’s that you adore so much to tarnish her skin with kisses; maybe it's the odd silence that’s befallen her.

At the doorway of her bedchambers, you fold your arms and watch Rafayel dismiss her servants, murmuring that she’s capable of handling her bed routine. You note that Rafayel even slips the ladies a few coins for the trouble, smiling kindly, and all the servants sweep out of the room.

You’ve been sneaking into this very room since you and Rafayel were children. The two of you chat about everything and nothing at all, from the political state of Lemuria to the latest gossip in the palace. Rafayel is not just a woman of unparalleled beauty and power, but also a highly intelligent individual that gets the gears in your head turning. You’ve always been in awe of her radical views, her passion for the arts and her adoration for her subjects. Speaking to her during stolen interludes is something that you could do for hours.

But it’s not a good idea right now. Not tonight. You can feel it.

A painting of the setting sun hanging over the sea is bottled up and preserved in the depths of her pink-blue eyes. Or maybe her eyes are like sea glass, weathered perfectly by tumbling waves, all glittery and alluring. Rafayel looks at you with an intensity that you haven’t seen before, peeling you back layer by layer and snapping up what spills out with her pointed canines. It makes you want to crawl into the safety of her jaws.

After a beat, you exhale through your nose and bow to her. It’s that time of the night where you’re meant to stand just outside of her chambers, doing your routine of keeping guard and idly imagining what Rafayel is doing inside. The mental image you have, of Rafayel dressing down, taking her silks and dress off and settling into bed, is enough to make you want to press your hands to your warming cheeks.

“I’ll see myself out and keep watch. Shout if you need me,” you tell Rafayel, stopping only when she abruptly grabs your wrist. “… Your Highness?” you ask softly, eyes flitting over her.

Her earrings catch the steady shine of the moon. The curtains are open, flooding the room with the crisp cool air of the night, and the light of the candles along Rafayel’s chamber walls dance merrily to a silent song. The room hums with an intimate warmth.

Finally breaking her silence, Rafayel shakes her head. “I wish for your company; stay,” she murmurs, voice honeyed and sweet. She releases your wrist so that she may slide the doors to her personal chambers shut. The thunk of settling wood puts a halt to any protests you may have harbored.

Not that you could ever say no to your princess.

Rafayel turns away. You hardly dare to blink or even move a muscle as she takes her time removing her ornate jewelry, each one a symbol of her status and the expectations placed upon her. She always carries the weight of the empire on her delicate shoulders, and seeing her let go, even in this small way, stirs something deep within you. Her hair pins go next, golden seashells and starfish releasing her hair and allowing the purple strands to fall silkily around her shoulders in loose, inviting waves, scented with oils and brushed to perfection.

Rafayel glances at you, then. It stops you from doing something stupid; like twirling some of it around your fingers and pressing it to your nose. “Miss royal bodyguard,” she singsongs, lowering the straps of her dress, revealing her neck, her collarbones, then her shoulders, “come help me unlace my corset.” And her dress drops.

The gentle flutter of fabric as it pools to the floor at her feet is the only sound in the charged silence of her chambers.

“I…” your throat’s gone dry. You clear it. “I’m not your maid, Your Highness.”

Rafayel raises one eyebrow. “I never said you were, silly girl. Can’t friends ask for favors?”

Friends. Right. As if you wouldn’t fall to your knees before her and beg for her favor if she asked.

You feel like you’re in a trance as you move towards her, the first step unsteady, the second a little more stable. Creamy skin unfurls before your eyes, a scattering of moles and beauty marks dotting her like tiny scales. It looks like someone’s taken a paintbrush, dipped the bristles into paint, and flicked it to create a spray of constellations on her skin. Aphrodite herself could not compare to the raw, sensual beauty that radiates from Rafayel in waves.

You swallow hard once you reach her back, trying to maintain an air of composure. Rafayel flutters her lashes at you from over her shoulder before she fully faces forward, putting herself at your mercy. So, slowly, reverently, you sweep her hair to the side, exposing her nape and the pillar of her spine.

It takes all of your willpower to not groan aloud. Someone grant you strength.

Beneath your hand, her skin smolders hotter than the candles surrounding them. You touch her for a moment, fingertips lingering, before you mentally right yourself and begin to work on the intricate laces of her corset. Your fingers brush against her back a few more times as you shakily loosen each stay, and you swear you feel her shiver.