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glowingbadger · 3 years

Note

Hi it’s me, crawling through the window. Would it be possible to get a crumb of arranged marriage w/ Hubert? His line w/ Dorothea about being willing to get married for politics sake has fueled my brain rot for him.

Good God I need to secure my windows-

I mean HELLO FRIEND ANON YES IT WOULD BE MY PLEASURE

Lol actually though, I have been thinking about this for Hubie since we all started chatting about that arranged marriage stuff! I think it's a perfect concept for him~

This like... got weird while I was writing it though?? Idk man hahaha it ended up on the less-spicy side of what I usually write, and with some very weird dialogue in places... Idk, I hope y'all like it. Maybe if there's interest, I'll follow this up eventually with a more smut-focused piece?

I've been traveling and working so much lately that I just don't even know what writing is anymore or how it works hahaha

TW: A brief mention of non-con

Hubert (FE3H) x Reader ("wife," neutral pronouns)

Arranged Marriage - semi spicy i guess?

"Frankly, he's a pain," Linhardt must be able to see your surprise and confusion written across your face. He goes on, "He's reliable and capable, of course, but also the most persistent nag you'll ever meet. Actually, no-" he glances upward as though to cross reference his own thoughts, "No, her Majesty is worse. But Hubert is a close second to be sure. Always on and on about sleep schedules and proper nutrition and etiquette..." He sighs and closes the massive tome on his lap, as though to close the conversation with it, "frankly, he's an insufferable mother hen. Does that help?"

"Well, it's... Not what I expected," you admit with a shrug, "but thank you all the same."

It's been several weeks since the papers binding you in marriage to Hubert Von Vestra had been signed- and this alone had sufficed. No ceremony, no grand ball, just paperwork and a handshake with your father. A handshake that ensured that, even under the Empire's unification, he would maintain nominal control over his considerable portion of land, and in return, would swear absolute loyalty to her Majesty. It was a beneficial arrangement for all parties, and you were not ignorant to the part you played. You were hardly even a bargaining chip- moreso, a hostage.

Your new husband had made no secret of what manner of harm may befall you if your family were to renege on their deal. Fortunately, you know your father to be a reliable coward, so you have no reason to believe he would be bold enough to step out of line.

Hubert Von Vestra is a terrifying man. A zealously loyal man of storied cruelty and a frigid disposition. His frame looms over you whenever he's near, and though he's hardly placed a finger on you since you'd been given over to him, his mere presence is... arresting. There's a sort of charisma to him that's equal parts frightening and fascinating. Perhaps it's madness brought on by your circumstances, but you can't help wanting to glimpse just the slightest bit into that brilliant, ever churning mind.

Unsurprisingly, he has been resistant to your attempts to understand him. He hardly indulges you in small talk, and if you were the paranoid sort, you'd think he intentionally makes himself busy when you're around. Eventually, perhaps out of sheer stubbornness, you'd settled on a routine of bringing coffee to his study adjoined to your bedroom in the evenings. He'd been visibly surprised the first time. It wasn't until the fourth night that he'd given a curt "thank you." About two weeks in, he'd actually sat back in his chair and laid down his quill pen to receive the cup from your hands. After a month, he'd leveled his narrow gaze at you and said,

"I cannot begin to fathom what satisfaction you glean from playing 'maid' to me."

"Well, I, uhm," you hadn't expected him to address you so directly, but you managed to say, "You... work so hard, I wanted to do something for you, I suppose."

His expression is inscrutable as he replies,

"You are aware that my work was much the same before you arrived."

"I am," you say softly, "But- all the same..." you trail off, and Hubert seems content to let the matter rest. And so you leave him be amidst his reports and correspondence, coffee at his side on the desk. Yet for as unproductive as your exchange might have seemed, it does leave you with an idea. The thought to learn about the man from those who knew him long before your arrival at the capitol.

Your investigation into the true character of your husband does not stop with Linhardt. In fact, his testimony only leaves you with further questions. But perhaps the others would say otherwise; perhaps the United Empire's most up and coming crest scholar simply inspires maternal behavior. This has to be the case- you simply can't imagine that the notoriously ruthless heir of the even more notorious Vestra lineage would be so... Doting.

And yet the more you learn of him, the more contradictory he seems.

Caspar's take is much like Linhardt's- a picture of a man far closer to a school marm than any assassin or master of torture. Ferdinand seems both smitten and incensed by him, oscillating wildly between the two. Then eventually, to your shock, Bernadetta takes the initiative to speak to you about Hubert of her own accord.

"I'm, uh, really so-sorry to bother you!" she approaches with arms drawn close to her chest and eyes resolutely avoiding yours, "I- I just heard that you were... asking about Hubert, so, I, uh..."

It takes some time to prompt her further. You assure her again and again- no, this isn't intrusive at all- yes, you'd very much like to hear her perspective- no, you're not mad at her. In truth, you're endlessly intrigued about what a gentle soul like Bernadetta would have to say about a man feared across the continent. Finally, she manages,

"He's... actually really kind!" she blurts out, as though the words would abandon her if she gave them the window of opportunity. Your eyebrows raise slightly.

"You think so..?"

"Yes, completely-!" she stammers, "I know he's super, super scary, and powerful and spooky and cold and, uh, all of that. But still," her voice falters as she continues, "He only scolds people when they do something dangerous. And he only hurts people to protect others. I... I know he's done some te-terrible things. But... he's always been nice to Bernie," finally, she meets your eyes with an imploring look in hers, "So, uh, I'm really grateful to him. And I think it would be really nice for someone to reach out to him. If... if that's not too weird or anything. For you."

You smile warmly and nod,

"Thank you, Bernadetta. I know it can't be easy for you to come to me with all of this, but... I'd like to try, if I can."

The opportunity doesn't come in the way you expect.

At first, it seems the night will proceed like many others before. You bring a cup of coffee to your husband's desk, setting it down quietly so as to not disturb him. He's silent, but this is common enough, so you head back to the bedroom to undress for the evening. All nights prior, he would lay beside you long after you'd settled in, then rise to resume work in the morning before you woke up- all the while never allowing your bodies to interact in any way.

Tonight, just as you're about to close the door to Hubert's study behind you, long fingers catch around your wrist, visibly startling you.

It's the most physical contact you've had to-date, but he only says,

"One moment."

You whip around to face him, a touch of anxiety evident in your eyes. It's clear in his own that he notices, but if anything, he only seems amused. He steps forward, his taller frame menacing you as he speaks,

"I understand that you have been busying yourself with some manner of investigation as of late."

It takes a moment for his meaning to reach you. When it does, your face burns and you can't bring yourself to meet his scrutinizing gaze,

"Oh, uhm..."

"I assure you, my dearest wife," he says with barely concealed venom, "anything that I do not wish for you to know will be kept from you. Aside from which, your efforts thus far have proven amateurish at best."

Something seems off about his tone. You could understand if he felt uncomfortable or hesitant about your efforts to learn about him, but this seems far more grave, more... business-like. He steps towards you once more, and you step back in turn. Yet before long, you feel your legs bump the edge of the bed. A gloved hand trails a fingertip down your jawline to your chin, then urges you to look up at him.

"Whatever you are planning, my dear, I promise it will be fruitless. You had best rethink how you spend your days before your actions bring you to harm."

"No, I-" your brow creases deeply, your face burns, your body burns hotter and you don't want to consider why, "I've just been trying to learn about you as a person, nothing else. We're- we're married, after all, so..."

He gives an abrupt, dry laugh.

"Ah, so I am to believe that you've been interrogating my allies out of some misguided affection, is that it?"

"Hubert, just listen to me!" for a moment, you feel bolstered, defiant, and you straighten your posture, "You won't tell me the first thing about you- the only way to learn so much as your favorite color is to ask someone who's known you for a decade!"

Briefly, he does seem to consider your words. But his eventual reply is as aloof as any prior,

"If you're no spy or politician, then you're worse- a fool." he says, and before you can respond, he's seized both of your wrists and pushed you back onto the bed. For a moment, the room spins and your voice leaves you. A shrewd eye watches you with cruel condescension as he pins you against the sheets.

"I should think that you'd be well aware what I'm capable of," he nearly whispers, "I personally ensured that the rumors spread through your father's territory and further still. Do you think that anyone would even dare lift a finger to help you if I chose to seek retribution for this recent behavior?" He draws nearer, his grip tighter at your wrists, "Perhaps as punishment, I'll simply take my pleasure from you by force."

Your lips tighten, you take a breath. Then, meeting his gaze directly, you reply,

"You won't."

His visible eye narrows.

"And what evidence do you have to prompt such unfounded confidence? Perhaps you have crafted a flattering falsehood of me in your mind," a mocking smirk curls his lips, "Am I a misunderstood sentimental sort to you, then? A sad, lonely man for you to save?"

You scowl, though you suspect it looks more like a pout to him.

"I don't know what I think of you yet- not completely. But I don't pity you like that, and I don't think you're sad or lonely. I know you're not."

For the first time, it seems that you've caught him off guard. That frigid mask falters for just a moment, and you go on before he can replace it,

"You're surrounded by people who care about you. I've seen it for myself. Whatever you've had to do in the service of your ideals- it hasn't kept the people around you from wanting to know and understand you, even if it's despite you."

Hubert is silent for a moment. His gaze bores into you like he thinks he'll discover some hidden layer if he can just keep digging. Then, he sighs,

"How did I ever become bound to such a troublesome spouse..."

When you wrest your arms from his grasp, his hands fall away with little resistance, and you think that perhaps he had never truly intended to keep you in place by force to begin with. He moves to leave the bed, but your fists find the front of his clothing and tug him back down to you.

You press your lips to his without hesitation, and you can feel him inhale sharply, his entire body rigid above you. His lips are surprisingly soft, his scent like coffee and old parchment, and though your heart threatens to burst from your chest, you hold firmly to him by his clothes. Near imperceptibly, he leans down against you, and your fear, along with any remaining doubts, begin to dissolve. Knowing he won't pull away, you let your hands relax against him, running up his chest where you can feel his own pulse pounding. It's so human, so entirely reasonable and normal. Now, at last, Hubert Von Vestra is merely a man of flesh and bone.

Your tongue meets his naturally, your lips parting in time with his as your kiss deepens to a fevered pace. One hand reaches that sharp, handsome jawline, reveling in the erotic sensation of his mouth moving against yours. And yet, all the while, his hands remain staunchly on the bed beside you. He doesn't touch you- doesn't even let his body meet yours.

It's impossible to tell whether passion or madness drives you to bring your teeth to his lower lip, a single insistent bite communicating desire mounting faster than you can contain. And for a moment, you sense something new; a sound catches in Hubert's throat, a reaction he fights to stifle. Then, he pulls away. His pale skin is tinted a rare shade of pink, and his hair is ruffled out of place enough to reveal both narrowed eyes. His cloak has spilled around his frame to surround you both, and somewhere in your frazzled mind, you imagine that you're caught in some beautiful, velvet-lined trap.

"I- must... return to my work." Hubert says stiffly. He pushes up from you and turns away, leaving you still flustered on the bed behind him. You sit upright, holding your arms tight around your body as you watch him straighten his hair and clothes.

"You, uhm..." your face reddens still as you search for the right words, "you could... join me in bed, if you liked."

Hubert turns to the door of his study, speaking without daring to even glance your way,

"Anything that you offer to me now will be born from the impulse to survive. I have been bargained with before." His shoulders slack just slightly, his voice low and sober, "The proudest nobleman will even sell off his own child to a monster if he feels it will spare him its teeth."

You open your mouth to protest, then shut it without a word. You feel that you know your mind and heart, even in this moment, but you lack the words to convince a man like this. In a feeble attempt, you murmur,

"You don't frighten me, Hubert. Not anymore."

He half turns toward you, though his hand remains on the handle of his study door.

"You yourself said that you do not know what you think of me," he says, "As such, I will not lay a hand on you until the day that you do."

You stare down at your hands in your lap, barely registering the sound of the door clicking shut as he leaves you in the bedroom. No matter how you try to sort out your tangled thoughts, the memory of his lips on yours won't leave them. If anything, it eclipses any sense of reason, standing resolutely in the way of your path to clarity. Letting out a groaning sigh, you fall onto your back on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling as if it could offer you any advice.

What do I think about my own husband? You wonder, the thought nearly enough to make you laugh. Well for one, he's a pain.

#hubert von vestra #hubert x reader #fire emblem #feh #fe3h #fire emblem three houses #fire emblem x reader #fire emblem imagines #fire emblem fic #x reader

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lacharcutiere · 3 years

Text

give me one night [nsfw 18+, sawamura daichi]

1,2k words

masterlist | next ➪

part one of i'm gone i'm gone i'm gone miniseries. high school graduation is a very bad time to realize you're in love with one of your closest childhood friends.

lol just to clarify, JST means "japanese standard time". i'll also be using EST later on, meaning "eastern standard time" (aka the time zone new york is in). JST is 13 hours ahead of EST !

tings // briefly referenced alcohol consumption, v soft n loving sex :) , a lil angst // i swear this søng is abøut eating øut my best friend's pussy - cøzybøy // dm, ask or comment to be added to the taglist ! minors dni.

— AFTER-GRAD PARTY: 27TH MARCH, 2021. 22:37 JST.

daichi’s always hated obligatory picture-taking, but he doesn’t mind it so much now. maybe it’s because of the thoughts about how these are your last few months together, the questions about whether he’ll see you again after it’s over. it’s been only hours since he realized he loved you, watching you walk across the stage, dazzling smile on your face as you received your diploma. he’s got one arm around your shoulders (and the other around kōshi’s) as parents and friends stand around you guys, snapping picture after picture until he’s sure he’s about to go blind from the flash.

out of nowhere, you pull the brim of his graduation cap down over his face, and he laughs. he loves you. and it’s a terrible time to realize that, because you’ll be leaving for new york by august. he’s lucky, at least, that he won’t be headed off to college until then either; he doesn’t know what he’d do if he didn’t get to see you again before you leave.

your voice, glittery with laughter, startles him out of his thoughts: “dude, y’okay?”

“oh, ha, yeah. i’m fine.” he notices a group of your other friends waving you over, nudges you toward them with a little laugh. “hey, i think you're needed elsewhere.”

you’re like magic, making him smile as he watches you laugh with your friends, exchange hugs, take a thousand more photos.

☾𓆙𓂻

you are like magic. he doesn’t drink often, but hey, kōshi tells him, we graduated, have some fun, man, and a few beers—just enough to blur the line between want and need—in you’re drawing him to you; he literally cannot stay away. he’s going to tell you he loves you. he has to. he absolutely cannot keep it a secret. he cannot keep you a childhood friend and nothing more. he thinks he might implode if he does.

— AFTER AFTER-GRAD PARTY: 28TH MARCH, 01:12 JST.

somehow you’re in his bed, he doesn’t know how you got there, not because he’s intoxicated but because all he can focus on is you. you, as you giggle and press his shoulders back into the pillows, kneeling on his mattress and trapping him between your thighs; you, as you ghost your lips down his throat and allow him to undo the zip on the back of your dress; you, as you stand and let it fall to the floor, leaving him in heaven and the presence of a goddess.

he can’t even fathom how complete he feels when he’s inside you, your arms around his shoulders, tugging at his hair and scratching into his back. he doesn’t understand how there can possibly exist a sound as beautiful as you when you cum, whining and shivering and clinging even tighter to him. he loves the way you say his name, soft, breathless whispers of daichi, daichi, fuuuck, loves the way your lips part when you do, soft and pink as he brings them back to his own.

— 07:43 JST.

was it all a dream? it must have been; there’s no one else in his bed. but there are cumstains on the sheets which prove otherwise. he’s almost afraid to text you.

— 16:31 JST.

☾𓆙𓂻

he arrives to pick you up a couple minutes early, sending you a simple I’m here text and leaning against the hood of his car as he stands outside and waits for you. when you step out the door, his breath catches. the smile you meet him with is mesmerizing.

☾𓆙𓂻

“so… what now?” you ask him over half-finished bowls of udon. after nearly an hour of avoiding it, it’s probably best to address what the two of you came here for in the first place.

daichi sighs, trying to balance rationality with the fact that he’s definitely in love with you. he realizes he still hasn’t asked you what your feelings are, and although he’s almost scared to know, he counters with a question of his own. “what do you want to do?”

“i dunno, what do you think—“

“no,” he says. “forget about what we should do, for now. i wanna know what you want first.”

his eyes don’t leave you as you avert your own, staring down into your soba and thinking. your cheeks flush and he swears he can feel his pulse speed up. when you look back up at him, your expression is soft and almost sad.

“i kinda want this,” you say, and suddenly everything stops except you. “i do want this.”

“okay…” he nods, urging you on vaguely aware of where this is going.

“but. new york. columbia. i already accepted their offer. and, i don’t know…”

“hm?” his tone is gentle.

“i don’t… i don’t think i could do long distance.” you pause to try and collect your thoughts; he waits for you to continue. “i don’t think that would be a good idea. because i don’t even know how often i’m gonna get to come back home. and, um, i don’t know—i mean, like, if we were actually together—i don’t think i’d be able to just not see you, you know?”

you’re right, he knows you’re right. he tells you this.

“but i do really want this,” you say quietly.

“me too.”

“so what do i do?”

“tell me your plans after college again.”

you shrug. “get my master’s, i guess? get a job in sendai or something?”

“okay,” he says. “okay. i’ll wait.”

“what?”

“i’ll wait,” he repeats simply. “i mean, if you’re okay with it, too.”

“what do you mean, you’ll wait?”

“we can, like, just keep things the way they've always been until we can make it work? until we’re both done undergrad, at least.” he stops, realizing he might be going too far too fast. “sorry.” and then quieter, almost shyly, he asks, “i— uh, sorry, i— how much do you want this?”

you shake your head at him, and there’s a tiny smile playing on your lips. “i’ll wait.”

— PRE-DEPARTURE: 20TH AUGUST, 2021. 18:32 JST.

somehow he’s managed to convince your parents to let him drive you to the airport separately tomorrow morning. they probably assume there’s something going on between the two of you already; you hadn’t hung out nearly this much since elementary school, when they’d still been the ones arranging your play dates. no one really minds, though; your families were always close and anyway, it really is just a matter of time.

he’s just finished dinner with your family when he nudges his knee against yours under the table. “spend the night at mine?” he says quietly, although he knows your parents will still hear. it’s fine; they love him. he watches you look to them in question, half surprised when your mother nods and allows you to go.

☾𓆙𓂻

on the walk back to his—just a few streets down, actually, he catches you thinking out loud. “is this a good idea?”

“is what?”

“you know... to, like, stay over. at yours.”

he laughs. “we won’t do anything, promise. friends for now, remember?”

“okay.”

— 23:32 JST.

you’ve fallen asleep next to him, in his bed, midway through the second movie of the night. he notices almost immediately, shuts his laptop and turns out the light. he pulls you into his chest, arms firmly around you. just this night. just for one night, he doesn’t have to let go.

taglist: @sakruisin-thru @softetsurou @oligbia

#haikyuu!!#haikyū!!#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu angst #daichi x reader angst #daichi x reader fluff #daichi x reader smut #daichi x reader #daichi sawamura #sawamura daichi #haikyuu series #daichi texts #haikyuu smau #? kinda

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i-did-not-mean-to · 3 years

Text

Next part of the weird Thorin-story that comes to me while I swim

Dear friends…Here I am again with another part of a story I had not planned to write and that has taken on a life of its own…

I love you, don’t hate me…

(Warning: this is less formal and a lot more…ridiculous than the last parts)

(It is “in-universe”, but barely, because I have no idea of the universe per se…)

She took the bowls to the river to rinse them in the cold waters that glittered and glimmered in the dimming light; the way the last sun of the day reflected in the ever-changing blue hues reminded her of the man she was travelling with.

It came as a very small surprise to her that her old nan had been mostly right about the dwarves, and she was more inclined to believe her post-mortem, now that she had seen a dwarf lord, no a future king, with her own eyes.

She harboured not the inkling of a doubt in her mind that he would indeed be king one day; there was something so noble in his demeanour and deportment that she found it easy enough to have faith in him. He was clearly born to lead, just as she had been born to serve.

A pang of pain washed over her heart like the cold water submerged her numb hands; she wished she could tell her grandmother about the magical creature she had come upon in the woods. How nan would have loved to hear about a man whose eyes held all the mystery of endless tunnels and the deep longing of the open sea at the same time; she would have laughed and nodded her fragile, little head, saying that kneeling was easy to those who will stand up for you as a protector rather than as an executioner.

“You shall find your master one day.” Old nan used to exclaim every time her young granddaughter had been particularly wilful or disobedient, running wild in the forest or toying around with the ingredients the old woman had collected during long hours.

She had loved her nan, but she had not believed that anyone would ever manage to curb her spirit and bind it to their will. “There are things between heaven and earth, child, that you cannot even fathom. Creatures of great strength, beings of profound wisdom, and lives full of beauty and suffering; one day, you’ll find your place in the grand design and you shall bow to its magnitude.”

At this moment, her nan’s words revealed their true and full meaning. She had believed that walking to the chapel every day would be her life’s work, but she had been wrong. All her life, she had but been waiting for the quest to begin. A quest for truth and for freedom.

His cloak was still around her shoulders and she regretted having to take it off to slip back into her own, sinfully rumpled, clothes. Checking if he was looking at her, she lifted his garment to her face and inhaled.

It smelled of woodsmoke, pine needles and of something darker that she could not identify, for she had not known any man before. Not like that. She had not smelled their skin and thought about pressing her lips against theirs; she had spent her youth with an old woman and her adulthood alone.

“Woman, there are hills in the distance. Can we reach them before night falls?” He called out to her and she dropped the garment, feeling caught and embarrassed.

“No, but we should reach them soon after. Why?” She responded, returning to where he stood, both feet firmly planted on a rocky outcrop cutting through the grass like a blade.

“We could spend the night in one of the caves in the rocks.” He cocked one eyebrow as if that had been a very obvious thing to consider.

Approaching the point where he stood, already holding on to her cart, she hesitated.

“We cannot.” Her feet stopped moving entirely as they bumped against the edge of the rock.

“I have never gone beyond this point. This is where the wilderness starts.” She whispered, pulling a small, needle-like dagger from her pocket and planting it forcefully in her forearm. While her blood dripped onto the grass, she said a quiet prayer.

“What are you doing?” He asked, interested and slightly alarmed to see her bleed onto the floor.

“My blood is bound to this earth, Master Dwarf, I want the ground to remember me and to bring me home if ever I lose my way.” She sighed before adding with a tremor in her voice: “Many have not come back after stepping past this stone. This is where the world of fire and mystery starts.”

He looked at her with calm interest. “We are getting ever closer to where my kin lives.” He declared, an unspoken question in his eyes. “Aye.” She nodded, forcing herself to smile.

“Are you afeared?” – “Aye.” She repeated, but with a heaving sigh, she lifted her foot onto the ledge. His hand closed around her elbow as he pulled her up and took his cloak from her cold, trembling hands. “You may turn back now; I won’t resent you.”

She laughed in a low, rumbling voice. “I cannot turn back, Master Thorin, I have pledged my service to you. Your story is part of my blood now, inscribed forever in this earth you might never tread upon again. Maybe, it always has. Maybe, old nan knew what would happen long before I was born.”

He had to admire her blind faith. She seemed so brave in her belief that all that happened was meant to be. Closing his hand around the shells buried in his pocket, he decided to believe her.

“Why can we not take refuge in the caves?” He then asked as they made their way through the rougher terrain. Sometimes, he had to steady her as she tottered and stumbled because she could not see the small boulders jutting out of the ground like gravestones; she never complained or pulled away from him and the smile she wore in the semi-penumbra was full of faith and affection.

“You cannot breach the integrity of the rock and delve into it without being given permission. It is rude and bad manners lead to bad accidents.” She shrugged.

“Another teaching of old nan?” He commented without irony or ill-will. “Everything beyond that rock”, she pointed to the ledge they had just passed, “is alive. We are now in the realm of the old souls where the trees have voices and the stones are stubborn. Listen, Master Dwarf.” She murmured and he was surprised, again, at the simplicity with which she accepted these things.

Indeed, he could feel the rock underneath the thin layer of greenery thrum with anticipation; it had been a long time since last someone had come this way.

“The stone bears you no ill will, woman.” He heard himself say in a low, gentle voice. Her tread was so light that it felt like a caress to the neglected ground; or, maybe, it was the inherent reverence she seemed to hold for everything around her that swayed the unmoving to support her insecure, flailing steps as well as they could.

“I give thanks to its gracious acceptance then.” She smiled, kneeling on the ground immediately and pressing both her hands to it in silent prayer.

This, he thought, was why she had survived. She had believed herself out of the reach of what she called “magic wilderness”, but he was almost certain that every element surrounding her had conspired to keep her safe.

“I have a sister.” Why did he tell her those things? “Oh, really? Is she beautiful?” She looked up.

“No, she’s a terrible…yes, she’s…She’s my sister. I guess she’s alright. Others find her beautiful.” He laughed and her smile broadened while the ground hummed in agreement with the joy they were spreading.

“She has those two terrible boys. I wonder…Would you teach them?” He was not usually this open, protecting his family and their secrets with fierce jealousy, but a part of him wanted her warm light of affection and respect to shine on his kin as much as on himself.

“Teach them what? What could a simple maiden like me teach princes?” She scoffed.

Maiden? Had she really told him that? She could have died of embarrassment.

Thankfully, he did not pick up on it, instead pinching the bridge of his impressive nose and groaning: “Respect…and how to swim.”

“Love shines brighter than respect, Master Thorin, but it doesn’t cancel it out. I’ve respected nan a great deal, but I loved her more. You are their uncle first and their king second, I’m afraid.” She smiled and he was struck by the truth in her words. It had been a silly remark, only half-serious, but her earnest tone chased away all teasing in his voice as he agreed with her.

“Keep that gorgeous head over the waterline and you’ll be fine.” She then picked up on the second part of his sentence seamlessly with a cheeky wink. “That much, I had figured out.”

They neared the looming rock now, pocked with caves and alcoves, and her steps slowed.

“Trust me, we are quite welcome.” He reassured her when he saw her hesitate; her hand slid very willingly into his own as he led her up a narrow ledge, leaving the cart at the foot of the small rise.

“I’ve told you so much about my sorry, lonesome life. Tell me more about yours if you please.” She asked as they entered a spacious cave. “We are on our way to rejoin my kin in Ered Luin.” He started, his face growing hard and unforgiving for a second in the light of the small fire he was coaxing to life. “One day, I shall reclaim Erebor though.”

She gasped. Another childhood story seemed to bleed from her befuddled mind into the real world surrounding her. “The lonely mountain…is real?” She asked, her breath bated.

“Of course it is real. What do you mean? What do you know about it?” He looked up sharply.

She had poured over every map in the small library of her town, she had even asked for express permission to enter the one in the richer, more sophisticated neighbouring town and she had questioned every travelling merchant she had encountered, but nobody had ever seen that fabled mountain. Many had even scoffed and laughed at her, shooing her away like an unruly child with too many questions and not enough common sense.

“Oh no, you were telling me a story, Master Dwarf.” She shook her head, undecided if she should tell him about a family secret; after all, since she had met him, many things she had imagined being mere fiction and a dash of conjecture had turned out to be completely true. Maybe, he would know more about those things and old mysteries would finally be resolved.

“As I said, I shall reclaim Erebor and lead my people home…after the bane is dead.”

“Which bane?” She cradled her head in her hands, elbows resting on her drawn-up knees and listened to him talk. He had a deep and melodic voice, the voice of century-old pride and eternity-spanning strength, and she liked the way it soothed the gnawing fear inside of her guts.

The sound of his voice was a presence in itself, reassuring and as solid as the creature it spilled forth from; it conveyed confidence and inspired trust. It was the voice of a king, booming in alarm and lulling in peaceful narration.

“The dragon, Smaug.” He uttered with disdain and barely held-back anger. “A dragon? Really?” She shook her head, dazed beyond words; dragons were even less likely to exist than dwarves.

“Yes, really. What other creatures do you not believe in?” He seemed partially impatient and partially amused; when his face split into a dazzling grin though, she realised that he was mostly entertained by her apparent naïveté.

“Are there really creatures made of pure light who can talk to trees and float over the ground?”

“His name is Thranduil and he’s a pain in the ass. Excuse the language, he’s a treacherous, disloyal coward, but yes, he is fair. As in…he shines with a cold, hard light. He rides an elk and some say that his soul can travel in the form of a white cow…or deer…or something stupid like that.” Thorin grumbled, heat flushing his face upon thinking of that distasteful creature he was describing. She laughed, she threw her head back and laughed heartily, her laughter echoing deep within the lonely stones encasing them. “Amazing!” She wheezed, clapping her hands and, had he hated Thranduil just a smidgen less, he would have been tempted to take her to the dark woods that cursed king lived in just to see her marvel at him.

That leaf-muncher riding other grass-eating dumb beasts did not deserve her starry-eyed wonder, even though, Thorin didn’t doubt that for one instant, the king of dark trees would have loved that.

She would also enjoy the forest, at least the way it had once been; she would love the different berries and herbs one could find galore in the shade of the trees that did indeed whisper of their dark secrets.

“Oh, I hope you won’t be disheartened by the long walk. There’s so many people I want you to meet: my darned nephews, my fiery sister…Ori, he sure loves a good story. If you start telling him your stories, he’ll follow you around like a puppy.” Thorin rumbled and she was struck by the love in his voice. These people sounded interesting and she couldn’t wait to meet them.

He inspected the fading burns and muttered: “Óin will want the recipe for this salve. If you manage to charm the old boy, and I’m sure you will, he might trade some of his own tinctures and potions with you.”

“Oh, I’d love to share my recipes with him. I’m sure there’s a dire need for it…with furnaces and dragons and such things.” She exclaimed, completely disregarding the gravity of the subject.

“Do you think they’d want to meet me though? I am just a human and far from the best of them.” Suddenly, she was overcome by a sense of dread and insecurity. She had never left her valley and the surrounding area; she would strike them as a silly girl who knew nothing of the world they had been born and raised in.

“You’re charming and you bring skills and knowledge we’d greatly profit from…but yes, we’re a private people and there will be dwarves who will not take to you kindly. I shall do my best to protect you.” He would not lie to her and she was thankful for his candid words.

“I have been poor and outcast all my life, I am not afraid of being shunned. I am used to a life in the shadows surrounding the bright lights.” She gave him a warm smile that was meant to be reassuring; she did not want him to trouble himself on her behalf.

“There will be none of that under my rule.” He sounded definitive, clearly, the last word was spoken on the matter and she dared not contradict him.

“Will you tell me of your prophecy?” His voice was soft now, enchanting, coaxing, seductive.

“Will you tell me of your mountain?” She shot back in the same melting tone.

“Tell me what you know of it first.” He challenged her and she blew up her cheeks in an effort to remember the exact words, handed down from generation to generation in her family. From daughter to daughter, words spoken in kitchens over steaming cups of herbal brew and at bedsides when the fire burned low.

“When my nan’s mother was but a babe in arms, or was it her grandmother, I don’t recall…either way, a traveller came to them.” She rolled her eyes, adding in a narrator-tone “Travellers coming seems to be a theme in our family history”.

“So, a traveller came and told them a great treasure had been received in the Lonely Mountain.”

“The Arkenstone.” Thorin exploded, shocked and outraged, apparently, she had touched upon another one of his well-guarded and jealously kept secrets.

“No, it didn’t sound like it was a stone. It was said that – after desolation and ruin, after being lost and found, upon returning home through the fire to lead his people – he, whoever he is, will be the “spring”.”

She paused, rubbing her index along her lower lip slowly to focus her mind.

“Go on…” He encouraged her. “I do not know if “spring” is meant in the sense of the season of rebirth or of the source of something good…or even as the coil that will catapult the world into the future, but he shall be the “spring”.”

She shrugged. “It’s been, oh so many years, and no doubt, the story has been tweaked beyond recognition or sense, but there it is. We’ve only ever heard of that place once: as the crib of a miracle.”

She shivered in the flickering light of the dying embers and when he took her hand, it was icy cold. “It’s a real place…I was born there, but we had to leave when the dragon came. It has vast halls, once filled with laughter and light, and…a treasure.” He tried to hold up his end of the bargain.

“You said that twice.” She teased. “What?” He frowned.

“You said that you have lived there and then you said there was a treasure. I understood you the first time.” She grinned when a treacherous blush stole into his cheeks. He was a warrior and a leader, he was not used to shameless flattery from females and he did not know how to react.

“I meant an actual treasure. Gold and gems.” He stammered, lost for words.

“I meant an actual treasure too, silver and marble.” She smiled, waving aside his embarrassment.

“Did you believe in that prophecy?” He then asked, to change the subject.

“Oh, Master Dwarf, human lives are short, but we believe in cycles. We are born, we live, we die, but everything and everyone comes back somehow. What has been lost, will be found. What has left, might well return. Nan used to say when one is at a loss, one should go back to where it ended, because chances are, that’s exactly where it will start again.”

Giving his hand a slight squeeze, she whispered: “You will face your dragon again, you will see your home again, you will have the chance to walk the same path backwards and find new solutions to old problems. This is not the end, it is but another beginning.”

She looked like an old, wise woman herself now, despite the youth of her face and the softness of her body, for her eyes seemed timeless. How many cycles had those eyes and the knowledge within them seen?

“Where is old nan now?” He asked. “Buried under the chapel where you found me. Where I found you.” Her smile was unfathomable and deep, as if the world held no secrets for her anymore, and he was in awe of her once again.

“You are cold.” He said in a hushed voice when she shivered again. He remembered how she had plunged into the cold water for his dinner and suspected that she had never really dried.

“I am fine.” She crept a little closer to the dying fire. “I don’t want to leave you here to fetch more wood.” He murmured as if to himself and she was quick to promise that she was completely comfortable the way she was. She had known cold and darkness before and she was not afraid of it.

“Will you teach my nephews to swim then?” He prompted her again, just to see her warm smile. She thought them children, but to her, they would look like full-grown men already.

“I could not bear to see such beautiful hair turned into this.” She pointed at the matted, tangled mass of her own hair hanging in a wild nest from her head.

“Their hair is pitiful either way. You might want to brush, should I give you privacy?” He offered, turning around and handing her a comb.

She wondered where he had taken it from, but she suspected that he brushed his own luscious locks obsessively every time her head was turned away, because there was no way his hair looked like this on its own.

He could hear the comb dragging through her hair and the sweet smell of fresh water filled the air, a note of citrus and wild flowers dancing on the waves the scent conjured up, and he had to grit his teeth to keep himself from turning around.

“You know you can watch me brush my hair? I don’t make a secret out of it.” She laughed after a moment and he did not need more coaxing or inviting than that; he spun around immediately, his eyes riveted on her slow movements.

She felt slightly awkward with him staring at her as if she was about to undress in a slow, salacious way; more than ever, she was convinced that he brushed his hair in secret in a kind of semi-erotic ritual. His hair was of course also something that was quite bewitching.

She didn’t question the fact that she seemingly found everything about him enchanting, literally from the top of his head down to the sturdy boots he was pulling off now.

“Don’t do that, you’ll get cold feet.” She warned, mainly because her own felt frozen stiff by now, but he just gave a rumbling chuckle that seemed to be echoed by the walls.

“I am…not.” He laughed, rubbing his thumb over her cold, frail hand slowly to show her that he was much better than her at keeping his body temperature stable.

“So…have you always been a herb witch?” He asked, not letting go of her hand. For some reason, he just couldn’t bear when she fell into silence. He was so full of questions; old nan had never told her that dwarves were such nosy creatures.

“What? I am not. I am a potter by trade. I started making the vessels for my nan’s tinctures, but when…after the plague, there was no need for vases and plates and so I made money how I could.” I needed to eat, she thought, and my nan’s knowledge of the world around her saved my life.

“A potter?” He sounded taken aback. “Yes, Master Thorin, I make fragile things to be used just like you make durable, strong things to be used. We are what we make, it seems.”

He cocked one eyebrow: “You don’t strike me as particularly fragile.”

“I guess it doesn’t matter anyway, we learn a trade and we work in it, but ultimately, we must come back to our blood and the responsibility we have towards it, don’t we?”

He nodded slowly. One of her hands felt warm now, encased as it was in his huge paw, while the other one was still numb with cold.

For one moment, she debated if this was the moment to be prideful, but then she just extracted her hand from his, shoving it into the gap between her tunic and her skin.

He looked positively hurt by her action.

“I am sorry.” He mumbled. “Why? For what?” She asked as she extended her other hand to him; he just stared at it in confusion. “Could you warm this one up as well, please, Master Dwarf?”

It was mortifying having to ask, but he seemed puzzled. “Oh, I thought I had crossed a line by holding your hand for so long…I…you snatched it away to tuck it away in a safe place…kind of…wiping it…I don’t know.” He confessed.

She didn’t know if she should laugh or frown at that kind of stupidity. “You are very warm.” She simply said, sighing with relief when he took her other hand and rubbed it slowly.

“You are clearly not.” He replied, his strong hands closing around hers up to the wrist. She felt like crawling into him and staying there.

Had nan known about this as well? Had she known that a dwarf lord was like a furnace, radiating light and heat in to the confined space she was huddled up in? The almost dead fire before her seemed a ridiculous, puny thing compared to him.

The hand in her tunic was growing cold again and she proceeded to another sneaky switch, which made him chuckle under his breath. “Scoot in closer?” He offered.

It was inappropriate. He was a king-to-be, he was a creature she had not believed existed in the first place, he was wholly too virile and intimidating, but when he extended his arm she pressed against his ribs with fervent eagerness.

“You’re frozen…and your clothes are wet. How are they wet?” He exclaimed as his arm settled around her shoulders. She had thrown them too carelessly onto the bank and they had soaked up some water, she thought, but she would not tell him about her own stupidity for fear of making him worry more than she was worthy of.

“Enough is enough. I’ll go get some new wood and fetch some dry clothes from the cart. You get out of these rags.” He rumbled, but when he tried to get up, she slung her arm around his waist in a fit of childish petulance.

“I’ll be back soon.” He draped his own cloak around her. “No, you’ll be cold. Take it.” She cried out, extending his garment to him. “Stone and metal hold heat better than mud.” He smiled gently and exited the cavern.

His sudden absence turned the cave into a grave and she scrambled out of her wet clothes with frantic urgency, spreading them on the rocks at the back of the grotto.

“Oh stone, let me hear those heavy footfalls so I know I’m not alone.” She begged, lying down on the floor, his cloak underneath her skin and half-draped across her shivering body.

He found nothing but his own clothes and, in his haste to get back to her, he grabbed a tunic of his and hurried up to the cave again.

She was lying on the floor and for a second, he thought that she might have fainted or worse, but when she sat up, a smile of welcome blossomed on her face that made his heart wince.

His cloak had slipped and he realised that she was back in her chemise, her naked body clearly fathomable under the thin layer of fabric. “I could only find my own tunic, I am, again, so sorry.” He mumbled, walking over to her slowly. She did not flinch or move back; her whole body seemed to lean towards his approaching silhouette instead.

While he threw some twigs onto the fire, begging it to flare into life again for her sake, he couldn’t help observing the way her breasts lifted and sank as she shrugged into his tunic, sighing in an expression of pleasure that was cruelly uncalled-for in her present state of hypothermia.

“Tell me more about your kin, Master Dwarf. Tell me about the people I shall meet so I shall know them when I see them.” She begged, extending her arms to make him sit down by her side.

“Are you still cold?” He asked, alarmed, as he settled next to her. She slipped back under his arm like a child, feeling frail and shivering, but sighing contentedly.

“I shall be warm in a minute. Look at the fire, Master Dwarf, what beautiful things we could fashion if we had the tools and the time.” She murmured, fatigue making her voice grow slow and melting, like honey dripping onto his senses.

He was aware of her slowly heating up flesh and her tiny hand resting innocently on his thigh as she was snuggled against him the way his nephews had when they had been but tiny little things. Only, he had never felt the fire pass from the hearth in front of him into his bloodstream when his nephews had sought solace or protection under his wing. He had not wondered about the way he might feel or smell when they had been this close to his body.

“I think that you’ll like Balin. I really do. He’s kind and smart; he’ll love the stories about your nan. Ah, you’ll get to meet Dwalin as well, he’s…probably my best friend. He’s solid, but he’s…there’s a reason he’s my best friend. We’re…less courteous than we should be.” Thorin started to honour her wish. “You’re lovely, stop it.” She mumbled hazily.

He thought about her words and about the mussel shells he still kept in his pocket. She was right, if he had the tools and the time, he would make something beautiful for her; she deserved something frivolous and gorgeous for all the help and devoted service she had offered him.

His eyes fell on her feet that were extended away from him and he was aghast to see them take a blueish hue. She was not falling asleep; she was succumbing to the surrounding cold still.

“Close in, oh stone, protect her.” He whispered, but the rock around him seemed to mock his words. “Close in, oh son of stone, son of ore, protect her.” Voices thrummed through the unmoving walls, and so he did.

Gathering her up like a bundle of empty clothes, he pulled her into his lap, leaning back against the stone wall and held her there.

Looking down, he saw the naked expanse of her legs which made him feel like an idiot for not having thought of that before. With one hand, he bent her legs at the knee and tucked them safely into the hollow he had created by spreading his own.

She lay flush against him now, he could feel the rise and fall of her chest against his own and, when he pulled his cloak over her gently, his hand brushed the smooth skin of her unclothed thigh.

Just a hand-breadth higher he would have brushed against other parts, secret parts, that were much like his dinner: firmly closed now, but if heated just right, revealing a glittering pearl.

This was a very inopportune thought to have, he berated himself, as his body heated up against his will, making her press against him with ever more fervour.

A maiden, she had used that word, and despite being clearly of age, he wondered if she had meant that in the most allusive and perversely seductive of senses.

When had that plague ravaged her village? When had old nan died? How long had she been alone?

It didn’t matter. She would not consider sacrificing that most precious of prizes to one such as him…She had not denied him anything this far, he remembered, not her time, not her care, not her boundless courage.

Not this though, he curbed his own fanciful imagination, never this. He would not ask anything of her, not before he could show himself worthy of all the things she had given up for his benefit this far.

Her hand snaked up and came to rest just above his heart. “Lovely.” She repeated in a low, mumbling voice.

And, as she was warm and clearly asleep now, he permitted himself the tiny, tortureous indulgence of pressing his lips for one brief moment against her head, resting against his shoulder as if it belonged there. Maybe…it did.

#richard armitage #thorin oakenshield #fanfiction #ao3 #a bit of crack #Thranduil is named #softcore smut #hints #thorin is an idiot #women have feet

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raziroo · 4 years

Text

Riddle Me This - James Potter x Reader

Pairing : James Potter x reader

Genre : Angst

Warnings : Mentions of injuries, reader-inflicted torture, hair pulling, reader-inflicted injuries, mentions of death.

Word count : 5,298

~~~~~

It’s hard being the daughter of the Darkest wizard of all time, of the one they all fear, of Lord Voldemort. Harder than you can imagine.

Because there’s always expectations, and opinions. Expectations have of you, and opinions people have about you. And it’s not good for your own self-esteem when you know that you will never be able to be all that they want you to be. And by ‘they’, I mean my father.

See, contrary to popular belief, Lord Voldemort is capable of caring. Yes, he can never love, and neither can I, but we can care. And for me, that’s enough. Being conceived under the effects of a love potion, my father was doomed to never be able to love; but that didn’t mean he wasn’t capacitated with sympathizing, empathizing, caring. Yes, he would never in a million years be able to experience the joy of being able to love, of being in love, and neither could I, but that was only for the best.

That was one lesson, along with several others, that had been taught to me from the start by my father, and his followers. I could never, ever, ever love. And I should never want to. Because love is for the weak, love is for inferiors. Love itself is weak, and all it does is make bounds for you.

And thus far, I had been successful. I didn’t want love; I didn’t need it. I was capable enough as it is.

Another lesson I’d been taught, was being ambitious, having ambitions. Striving to be the best, being the best, and reveling in the satisfaction of winning, it was a value instilled in me from quite a young age.

And ambitious I was. I reveled in the satisfaction of proving myself right and others wrong; I basked in the glorious feeling of victory, of exceeding expectations.

Being homeschooled since a young age, and that too, with the occasional inputs of the Dark Lord himself, I was a trained witch, and a good one at that. Having Death Eaters as competition, and the constant expectations of being better than each of them, it wasn’t an exaggeration when I say, you do not wish to cross me. I usually came out triumphant in duels, all except when I was ill, or exerted, or when me and father dueled. He was the obvious champion.

But then came along Bellatrix LeStrange. The female, who previously belonged to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, was related to two blood traitors. One was her sister who, despite having such a rich and reputed heritage, eloped with a Hufflepuff. A Hufflepuff. The other was her first cousin, Sirius Black. And in the latter’s case, what surprised me wasn’t the fact that the boy had managed to escape and betray the Blacks, no. It was the fact that he had escaped Walburga Black. The woman was a tyrant, a hurricane, with a pitch high enough to rupture your ears, and fury blinding enough to make you cower back in fear.

I aren’t going to lie, I had severely underestimated the woman. Bellatrix, she was deranged, she was unhinged. Her eyes were maddening and crazy, and her skills beyond average. Her ruthlessness and un-sympathizing nature was what made her all the more an even terrible foe to have. She reveled in screams, hearing people scream and cry and writhe and shout in anguish pleasured her. She wasn’t sick. That made it sound like what she had, had a cure; when in truth, she was insane, off her rocker, and so, so dangerous.

So, as you might have understood, I lost in the duel against Bellatrix. And I had lost bad. Father had refused to speak to me for 6 straight weeks after that, he had been so disappointed. And it hurt me, because all he had ever asked of me to be the best, to strive for perfection, to outdo even the greatest of rivals. And I had failed him that day.

So when father asked me to go attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, for the sole purpose of being able to keep an eye on Dumbledore, I had packed my bags without a sound of protest, as much as I dreaded going to the school. I wasn’t thick, I understood the fact that father could have very easily asked any one of his Death Eaters to-be to spy on Dumbledore; he had given me a chance. Something that he didn’t give everyone, and I was grateful.

. . . . .

I hated this place. Students swarming everywhere, so much noise, so many people, it was unbearable. I’d always been one to find solace in loneliness; this place was the exact opposite. I couldn’t fathom how you were meant to actually study in Hogwarts; sounds and voices and whispers and chatters were unescapable, anywhere and everywhere you went. Even the classrooms and the library weren’t spared – the former and latter, both, due to the courtesy of the Marauders.

Oh, the Marauders. They were a whole entire issue separately. A group of rambunctious, untamable, and obnoxious boys, and that too all Gryffindor, whose sole purpose was to create chaos and play pranks, and who went by the name, ‘The Marauders.’ A marauder, typically, means a person who roams around, looking to steal. Sweet Salazar, why would you decide to call yourselves that? And then be proud of it?

The group consisted of four ‘pupils’, if you could even call them that (they were just troublemakers, in my opinion), namely Remus Lupin, the only tolerable one, Peter Pettigrew, the rat-like one, Sirius Black, the blood traitor by choice, and James Potter, blood traitor by family. How very nice.

Now, me, being the live and let live sort of person that I am, didn’t care too much about those four, as long as they kept their noses out of my business. They didn’t. They were all overly curious about my background, my family, why I joined mid-year, et cetera, et cetera. Their curiosity was low-key harassment, in all truth. Merlin, leave me alone. But no, those blood traitors and half-breeds all wanted to invade my privacy, annoy me, make my life hell. So, I returned the favors.

See, father had sent Nagini along, just for a piece of home to be with me. And my snake not only spied on them and contributed in the ‘Trouble the marauders’ project in the day, she contributed during the night as well. And so, I’d ended up here, in an abandoned classroom after curfew, wand pointed at the Marauders after a particularly irritating day.

We Slytherins, every Wednesday morning, shared double potions with the Gryffindors. And as if that wasn’t torturous enough already, Slughorn had fixed seats, because “Some students have been disrupting the decorum of the classroom,” and so now I was seated beside Lily Evans, a “particularly bright muggleborn witch,” as Slughorn said. She was just a pathetic know-it-all, and a mudblood to top it off, in my opinion. The girl was sickeningly sweet, and was all chirpy-chirp when I had been assigned as her partner. She was ecstatic, probably to meet a new person. I was disgusted, probably to meet a new person.

And above that, Pettigrew and Black sat behind us, Lupin and a Slytherin named Severus Snape on a bench on my right, and in the front was Potter, sitting alone. And I know, I know, it seems exaggerated because a real life situation possibly cannot be this bad, but it’s true, trust me. Potter was reciting cheesy pickup lines to the Mudblood, all while she grew angrier, his friends suppressed their laughter, Snape turned green from envy, and I refrained from

committing bloody murder.

“Hey Evans, why don’t you play Quidditch, you look to be a keeper.”

“Shut up, Potter.”

“Oi Evans, are you a dement-“

“-Sod off-“

“-Or, because I’d die if you kissed me.”

“You don’t die after a dementor’s kiss, Potter, your soul gets sucked.”

“Evans, we may not be-“

“-Godric, no-“

“-In Flitwick’s class, but you sure-“

“-Are a charmer? Potter, you’ve used this.”

“Did you use the stupefy charm, Evans-“

“-Potter, I swear to Morgana I’ll-“

“-Because you sure are a stunner.”

Merlin, this blasphemy was giving me a headache, and making it harder by the second to not kill someone. I was in the process of stirring the cauldron, and Evans was just adding a bit of snakeskin, when Potter abruptly turned around and started speaking, and so, out of shock (or it could be because she was mad), Evans dropped the snakeskin too early, and the potion suddenly became a brilliant blue, instead of a mellow violet, and exploded, covering me and mudblood and potter and Black in goo. On top of that, my hand got burned due to the jump I made on Potter’s suddenness.

As the entire class fell silent after the burst, I slowly brought up my right hand, which was shaking, and wiped off the slimy substance off of my face; the slime made splattering noises as it hit the floor. When I finally opened my eyes, my hands still shaking, I was met with a red-faced mudblood, probably with anger, red-faced Pettigrew and Black, probably with suppressed laughs, and a pale faced Potter.

And trust me, I tried so hard to contain the magic threatening to erupt from inside me; I’d bit my lip the hardest I could, clenched my shaking fists, and closed my eyes, hoping against hope that my magic didn’t lose control. No such luck, however.

Potter and friends were suggested to bedrest for 5 days after that.

Of course, they’d tried to escape out of the hospital win the very same night, and unfortunately, right at the moment I was on my way to the Owlery, so that Celine, my eagle owl, could deliver the letter to father. I was on the fifth floor corridor in the west wing of the castle, when those troublesome Marauders an into me. Literally, straight into me, for they had an invisibility cloak draped around them. How they had managed to escape the nurse even with the cloak was a mystery to me, because there were constant hisses and whispers and mutters coming from the direction in which, occasionally, a pair of feet came into view.

As I bumped into them, their cloak fell off, and I swiftly picked up the letter of mine that had dropped to the floor. “What are you idiots doing here, in the middle of the night?” I asked, brow raised.

They looked stricken for a moment, then sounded Lupin’s voice. “We could ask you the same question,” the scar-faced boy said, still a tad out of breath.

“Yeah, Riddle, what are you doing out here?” Black enquired further.

“That is none of your business, blood traitor,” I said, my tone sharp, eyes cold. Black looked a bit hurt, Lupin pursed his lips in what seemed to be disappointment, Pettigrew whimpered, and Potter looked angry.

“What, did you say to him?” he asked in a tone that would be menacing for some, but not for me. “I merely reminded your friend of what he is , Potter, what he’s become, what he’ll forever be. A blood traitor,” I said in a calm and cool voice, which seemed to irk the raven-haired boy even more.

“It’s alrig-“ Potter, however, cut his friend’s sentence off midway.

“Don’t call him that, you filthy snake,” he snarled.

“Seem to hit a nerve, have I, Potter?”

“You bloody-!”

“WHO’S THERE?” screeched a scratchy, gravelly voice. Filch.

All five of us gave each other a glance, and the next second, we were inside the nearest room, which just so happened to be an abandoned classroom that was priorly used for History of Magic. We all held our breath, until the steps and meows and purrs and grunts faded off into the distance.

“Now, back to what we were-“

“We weren’t doing anything, Potter. You took the truth a little too to the heart, when even your friend didn’t seem so bothered by it.” Potter was going redder in the face by the second. “Now, if you Gryffindors don’t mind, I should get going. I,” I waved my letter-holding hand, “have a letter to deliver.” Just as I turned around, Potter snatched the letter right from my hand. Oh, Merlin, no.

“Let’s see what we have here, hm?” as Potter said that, even Black’s troubled look evaporated from his face. They were back to their bully nature.

“Yes, Prongs, let’s.”

“No!” all four looked up from the half-torn envelope. “I- don’t open that.”

“Why? Why,” Potter waved the now half-torn envelope in a much similar fashion in which I had, “would I return this? Or not open this?”

“It’s a letter containing… things that I would share with people who’re… close to me,” I said, my stance cautious, manipulative mannerisms in progress. Although it would be hard to talk my way out of this one, and that was considering if I even could.

“Close to you, hm? Well then, it’s even more precious,” Black said this time, both dark-haired boys sharing devilish grins, as their friends behind them looked sheepish, but said nothing.

“Black, Potter, please. Don’t be immature,” I tried to reason, but the boys were having none of it, and tore open the envelope fully, and begun reading the letter aloud. “Dear father, I hope you are doing well. You will be pleased to know that Dumbl-“

“Accio letter!” I exclaimed. The letter didn't come into my hand, Black had anticipated this. The boys, having read and heard part of Dumbledore’s name in my letter, had now shed their teasing demeanor and their eyes furiously roamed the piece of parchment, as Lupin cast a Protego so that I wouldn’t be able to Accio anything again. “-that Dumbledore has been unsuccessful in finding out your location. I hope it will continue to be so, seeing that Malfoy and Avery can’t seem to keep their mouths close in presence of Gryffindors. I am sure you can take care of that.

As for the elder Black boy, chances of him joining your ranks seem to be as good as none, considering his constant company is half-breeds, blood traitors, and mudbloods, and he seems keen on troubling each and every Slytherin; he gets into routinely brawls with LeStrange, Crabbe, Goyle, the likes. His friend, the blood traitor Potter, his mother has caught the Dragon Pox,” Potter’s voice broke, “so it is assured that she will not survive. As for his father, Fleamont Potter, the auror, he seems determined to find the cure and weed out each and every member of your ranks; the man is livid. As for the werewolf, his company is same as Black’s; it is highly unlikely he will join your ranks.

My education here is going as expected, the Professors teach me nothing that I don’t already know.

I hope all the information I have been able to convey in this letter will be efficient for you. As always, Nagini has been an absolute darling.

Yours truly.” Potter finished, looking stricken and sad and livid, all at the same time. His friends all were furious, too.

He, however, was angrier than any of them; the mention of his mother’s name, and the fact that he now knew that father’s followers were the cause of his mother’s ailment, only added fuel to the fire.

Although I hadn’t once mentioned father’s name in the letter, it was clear that these four boys, whom I’d just assumed were naïve teenagers, knew more than they let on. And suddenly, it was clear why they bothered me so much, specifically, why I’d become their main target: these boys knew something fishy was up; something that wasn’t just related to a new transfer student.

With trembling hands, and a quivering lip, Potter looked up, eyes ablaze with fear-inducing fury. “You. It was… you, you were involved with… this, all along,” the boy declared more than asked. “You-!”

“OI! Who’s there?!” a scratchy voice asked, from not very far away. Merlin, Filch. I glanced at the boys, panic settling inside me. I couldn’t afford getting caught in an abandoned classroom with four of the most troublesome people I had ever met. My record, up till this day, had been perfectly clean. No failed tests, no late assignments, no detentions. If I got caught today, there would be a huge, ugly, black spot on my school records, as well as my reputation – because one thing I’d learned at Hogwarts was that news travels fast. Faster than I’d like.

In a panic-stricken haze, I made what was possibly the most impulsive decision in the entirety of my life. I pointed my wand, muttered a spell, snatched the letter, disillusioned myself, and fled the classroom as fast as I could. The letter could wait.

. . . . .

As I sat on the Slytherin table the next day, I chewed on my omelette with well-masked anxiety. If the boys came in, and started pointing fingers and started shooting spells at me, I would most certainly be in trouble, and the public humiliation would come hand-in-hand. However, if they’d decided to tell Dumbledore, then my trouble would be doubled. And if, if, by chance, by Salazar’s most divine blessing, my spell had worked, then I could seek refuge here in the castle for more time.

Lost in my thoughts and the chatter surrounding me, I completely missed on the theatrical but yet, routine and typical, entrance of the Marauders. Their flailing hands, arrogant smirks, loud banter and even louder chatter gained a couple students’ attention, though said students went back to what they were doing almost immediately.

As I looked up, the four Gryffindors appeared and behaved as they usually did – without a care in the world. No visible anxiety, no frown, no scowl, and definitely no pointed fingers. I was relieved, and my short sigh indicated so. Just as I was about to really go back to eating my food, I caught the mischievous eyes of one James Potter, and by the look in his eyes for that split-second, I knew something was definitely wrong.

. . . . .

Salazar, I hadn’t expected things to go this wrong.

See, the spell I’d used on the Marauders that night was a simple ‘Obliviate’, and then a bit of memory-modification; the boys were planning a prank to make everyone drowsy, and while they planned, they started messing about, used the spell on each other, and fell asleep. Simple enough, yes?

No.

In my hurry, I’d done something wrong, I don’t know what, and had made James Potter think that he was infatuated with me. And yes, I know, the odds of someone believing that were pretty not in my favour, but James Potter could be pretty persuasive, and the fact that the male had finally moved on and given up after so much time, was… expected.

But such a drastic change wouldn’t be believed. His first choice was the golden girl of Hogwarts, the redheaded muggleborn genius Gryffindor, the one who had a warm aura radiating off of her, whose emerald eyes were sharp yet so affable; and then there was me, the brooding Slytherin with green tips in her hair, a stare so pointed people would turn away if they were walking in my direction, and a resting bitch face so effective no one, not even purebloods, wanted to talk to me.

But that was just the beginning. The number of unwanted gifts I received was horrendous – roses in black, white, red, Merlin, even green color; poetry so bad it was tragic; pickup lines so bad I swear my ears would start bleeding if I heard more of them; and extravagant confessions of love that were embarrassing beyond comparison.

But I knew it wasn’t love; love can’t be created. Yes, it was infatuation, but it was just that. The effects the messed-up memory-altering spell were quite similar to those of Amortentia, the only difference was that I didn’t intend that.

. . . . .

A month had passed already, and we were all growing nearer to graduation. The workload was crumbling; seventh-years, such as myself, spent their days and nights in the libraries, the gardens, abandoned classrooms, dormitories, anywhere they got, just studying and learning and practicing. And the three essays we were doomed to get each day didn’t help either.

So now, Jam- sorry, Potter’s unwanted public displays of affection only added to my stress. The constant nagging, shouting, pickup lines, rejections – ugh.

I put up with it only until I snapped.

It was two months later, three days until our first exam, History of Magic, when it happened. I was roaming the dungeons, muttering spells under my breath and practicing wand movements, when I heard noise. I immediately knew. And even though if I’d been saner, I’d probably just ignore it and leave those Marauders and their shenanigans alone. But at that time, I was past the point of sanity, and my fingers were itching to do some actual magic – real magic, not the amateur spells this pathetic excuse of a school was teaching me. You would think that learning advanced stuff would make the basic spells and hexes and potions easier; it was quite the opposite. Having learned what first years learn at age four or five, and reaching seventh-year level by twelve, I was so ahead that I’d forgotten the basics.

So I whipped around, wand pointed, the boys’ cloak blowing off by a nonverbal spell, as they all stared at me. Potter spoke up first.

“Hey, Dahlia, how’re you holdi-?”

“Shut up, Potter,” I snapped. Dahlia was short for black dahlia, the name he used for me in his “poetry”.

“Aw, someone’s i-“

“Shut up, Potter!”

“Love, you shouldn’t preten-“

“Shut. Up,” I sneered, taking two quick strides and jabbing my wand at his throat. “I’m not pretending. I don’t have to. I loathe you, you imbecile! Stop bothering me, because I have work to do, and chapters to study, and spells to practice, and write letters to my parents, unlike you, who would much rather just roam around bullying people, and whose mother is on her death bed and father is half-mad, and whose entire family are filthy bloodtraitors!” I was heaving for air at that point, and once oxygen reached my brain and lungs, only then did I really comprehend what I’d said.

The hazel eyes of the boy in front of me had lost their glint, and had suddenly become too dull, even for me. His friends were standing stunned behind him, eyes flitting from my – as I then realized – guilty expression, and his heartbroken one.

It took him a few seconds and shaky breaths, but the Potter boy finally spoke up. “If… i-if what I say and, uh, do, g- gives you such a headache, then I’ll just, um, stop,” he said in a voice that was uncharacteristically quiet. I gulped, uncomfortable due to the pit that seemed to be settled in the bottom of my belly, and gave a stiff, curt nod.

He nodded again, gaze constantly on the floor, and then trotted away, his friends trailing behind him, now giving me angry glares, having come out of their stunned stages.

And although I should have felt relieved, because I somehow knew that Potter wouldn’t be back to his old ways, I instead had a strange tightness blooming in my chest, slightly constricting my breathing. Shaking my head, I went back to the dormitories, because I couldn’t possibly have gone back to sleep then.

. . . . .

Two days until the day all seventh-years would graduate, say goodbye to the castle, probably forever, but instead of feeling sadness or nostalgia or sadness on leaving the castle, I just had that constricting feeling in my chest growing every day, because I didn’t have even one happy memory in the castle.

My letters to father were sent occasionally, because honestly, except recruiting the seventh-year Gryffindors, and one Hufflepuff, to the Order, Dumbledore had done honestly nothing.

Potter had once again slipped back into his old routine, but his eyes never seemed to had that sparkle anymore. He flited with Evans, she flirted back, seemingly suddenly not liking the lack of attention she got when his affections had been aimed towards me, and each time I saw them that way, I would tighten my jaw, and grip my wand, or books, or even the hem of my sweater if I didn’t have anything, a little tighter.

The feeling was so foreign, and I didn’t like it one bit. Perhaps Evans’ case was what I was suffering with; but I had never liked the attention.

So…why?

. . . . .

During autumn 1979, Lily and James Potter had decided to get married, only at the supple age of 18. And I didn’t know why it bothered me, but it did. That’s why I had been the one to plan the attack on the same day as their wedding.

At 4 pm, the Death Eaters all broke in to the Potters’ mansion; an anonymous source had informed us of the location. I was part of the crew that was attacking – so were Bellatrix, the LeStranges, Malfoy, Pucey, Nott, Rosier, Selwyn, Regulus, the Carrows, Dolohov, Greyback, and Snape – we were father’s most ruthless and dangerous pawns, in the midst of the useless ones. Except me and Bellatrix, clad in hooded robes, the rest all wore their masks.

The wards around the Potter mansion had been taken down by someone inside, and so, there were little to no obstacles in our path.

As we all apparated in, it took the guests a hot second to even realize what had happened; once they did, there was a full-on battle.

The first person to attack me was Professor McGonagall, who was, as expected, one heck of an opponent. It was fun, going back and forth with a person who was suppose to have power over me, and that too in a dangerous duel. And yes, she caught me off-guard a couple times, but that was that. Confringo’s, stupefy’s, crucio’s, expulso’s, reducto’s, spells that melted your insides, jinxes that turned your heart to metal, hexes that made your wand obey your opponent, curses that blasted you apart; there was everything included, because I had lethal intent. It was a Sectumsempra, however, that finally took down my Professor, for she was growing out of breath, and when cuts and gashes made way into her arm and shoulder, she finally dropped to her knees, wand still not forgotten.

Trusting Nagini to take care of her, I went off, assisting Snape in a duel against a certain redhead that he was going way too easy on. And it was easy to take her down, because with a carefully aimed Crucio, the bride had dropped down, screaming and writhing; my companion turned to me just as I heard a scream of “LILY!”, and I just knew he was grimacing underneath. Shrugging my shoulders, I then left Snape to engage in a duel against Dorcas Meadowes, who was fighting beside a heavily breathing redhead whose wand had been blasted off to who knows where. I needed to see the captured.

As I entered the mansion, I was impressed; I didn’t remember any attack in which we’d done this well. But then again, I’d been ready to kill whoever didn’t immerse themselves into pure torture of these people. Most guests had already escaped; only the groom, his father, his friends and colleagues, a couple Professors of whom Dumbledore wasn’t part of, and the bride who was soon brought in, we had mostly all the important ones in our grasp.

I locked eyes with Pettigrew, on his knees beside Potter, and was quivering. He seemed to know what I wanted to tell him – good job.

“Lily!”

“Dorcas, are you okay?”

“What happened?!”

“Lily, love-“

“SHUT UP!” exclaimed Bellatrix, just at the right time. She then proceeded to cackle madly, which I rolled my eyes at. Lucius hissed something about “embarrassing women”.

“Let her go, please,” uttered Potter, and only then did I turn to see Snape holding his wand at Evans’ back. Holding, not jabbing. Striding towards him, pulling her forward with her left arm, and forcefully making her sit on her knees directly in front of Potter as I held her in place with her hair, the girl couldn’t hide her quivering lip from me. I didn’t blame her; I’d successfully destroyed her wedding, and would probably kill her. But I couldn’t help chuckling when Potter started pleading to let her go, because she was bleeding. And the twisted pleasure I derived from that sickened me, but I couldn’t stop it.

Tugging at her hair harder, I muttered a stinging spell under my breath, and the girl’s shoulder began burning more. She yelped and hissed, and I could make out the clenched fists of my fellow Death Eater from the peripherals of my vision. He had to get over her.

And that was the reason, I convinced myself, why I Crucio-ed the girl on her knees.

Her friends screamed at me to stop it, she screamed at me to stop it, Potter screamed at me to stop it, but I didn’t. Amongst the shouts, Black screamed at me to reveal my face, as his cousin already had. I didn’t. And the billow of wind that went past me, temporarily stopping me, and lowered my hood, I knew it wasn’t just nature’s wrath.

As Rabastan tortured Black for lowering my hood, McKinnon taunted, “Oh, your friend can’t defend herself, is it?”

I was flattered, honestly, with the uproar that caused among the Death Eaters. Chuckling, and then asking them to stop it, I wandered to McKinnon, and crouched to her eye level, looking head-straight into her blue eyes. I was aware of the tense gazes of the wedding guests on me, and I couldn’t help but smirk. Quickly suppressing it, I ran my hands along the girl’s face – her nose, jaw, lips, and then threaded them through her hair.

Pulling her head back with her hair, I tilted my head to the side. “You’re the half blood, hm? Gryffindor, like your mother. Your father was Ravenclaw.” She seemed creeped out a tad, at me knowing her family so well. I raised my voice, no longer muttering. “Dolohov, take this one back home. Don’t touch her, or her family. Kill them off, make it hurt. Once you’re done, come back here.”

And so the screams started again, protests and thrashing and writhing. Dolohov did as he was instructed, and everyone watched, horrified.

“Anyone else, have any problem?” I raised my brows. Silence.

I then worked efficiently. Meadowes, Black, Pettigrew and Lupin were taken to the headquarters, meant to be attended to by Father. Bellatrix was allowed to torture whoever she pleased. Once she was done, I dragged the mudblood by her lover, and both of them were tied together. The professors were sent back to Hogwarts as a message, and once those two, as well as Auror Potter were the only ones left, me and the Death Eaters trudged out. Standing at the door, I pointed my wand. “Fiendfyre.”

The doors were closed, and the screams inside would haunt the area forever. The Potters had been murdered, along with all the most valuable assets of the Order of the Phoenix, and Neville Longbottom, two years later, had been marked with a lightning scar.

No one messes with the Riddles and gets away.

No one is worthy of our jealousy.

#james potter #marauders era #marauders map #the marauders era #the marauders #marauders #character x reader #james potter x reader #lily evans #sirius black #remus lupin #1997 #hogwarts #slytherin #gryffindor #slytherdor #Harry Potter #AU

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elexica · 4 years

Text

Second Chance Christmas: {{ December 24 }}

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27832405/chapters/69340716 Christmas Eve is a lot more pleasurable this year.

Rating increased to Explicit for smut this chapter. If you would like to skip it, end the chapter at the grilled cheese.

Entire chapter under the cut.

When Joey rolled over to look at his cellphone, he was startled to see it was almost 10:30 am. How did he sleep in, until mid-morning, on Christmas Eve? It was impossible that the kids hadn’t awoken with the dawn, and absolutely impossible that they didn’t need some form of attention by now.

Maybe they’ve been kidnapped, Joey wondered to himself. That would be just his luck—the second Kaiba’s back, loved ones get kidnapped.

He looked out the French doors that lead to the master bedroom’s balcony. It wasn’t a bad view at all, and the snow was wafting down. It was soft, fluffy, powdery stuff, already accumulating on the handrail of the deck. Joey considered fighting the temptation to wander out, but decided to just take a peek outside.

He was instantly rewarded with the sight of Alexis braining Atticus with a snowball.

They were dressed warmly, if a bit mismatching. From the bright red glove on one of Atticus’ hands, and the black mitten on the other, someone wasn’t able to find the right counterpart in time.

That someone was looming a bit off to the side, like he always did. Kaiba was crouching in the snow too, busy at work making something. Joey couldn’t tell at this distance, and it would be pretty harsh of him to join in the snowball fight. Joey knew from experience that Kaiba didn’t half-ass snowball fights and had killer aim.

Joey had only managed to keep up because he thought shoving snow down the back of Kaiba’s shirt was the funniest thing in the world. The full body shiver and searing rage it inspired were unparalleled.

Instead, today it looked more like he was on hand to intervene if Alexis got too invested and owned her older brother too hard. And like he was doing something of his own, playing with the snow.

Was Seto Kaia building a snow man? Joey squinted, but the white snow was too bright and the packed snow was too indistinguishable from the freshly fallen drifts for him to actually be able to tell.

Joey felt some snowflakes collecting in his own fluffy hair, and with a shake of his head decided he could do a better job spectating from downstairs.

A latte was sitting on the kitchen counter. The foam had somewhat disintegrated, melting back into the coffee and milk mixture. At first, Joey assumed Kaiba had just left it behind for himself when he had been probably unceremoniously dragged into the falling snow by their little miscreants.

But upon close inspection, the foam had a sort of heart pattern on the top, made from pouring the steamed milk just so. Latte art had been an interest of Kaiba’s for about a day several years back—he had been convinced that he could replicate the delicate pouring in a robotic attachment added to the espresso machine, which could be repurposed to replace certain precision work in the Duel Disk manufacturing line. In the process, he had gotten very good at making them by hand as well.

Could the mug actually be for Joey? It didn’t look like Kaiba had sipped from it.

Kaiba was probably just showing off to the kids, Joey thought to himself. Even so, it melted his heart in his chest just a little bit. Even if it wasn’t for him, Joey was going to taste it. It was on Joey’s counter now, right?

The milk foam was soft against his lips, sweet little bubbles popping on his tongue as he sipped, and the coffee was still warm. He could feel the heat of it course down his throat.

He took another long drink of it, and it really was that good. If Kaiba had a love language, Joey pondered midway through another gulp, it probably would be fancy coffee.

Joey took the mug out with him, the warmth of the mug soothing in his hands as he wandered to the backyard. The chill in the air hit him in the face, instantly, and he wished he was wearing more than night clothes, his bathrobe, and slippers.

The family hadn’t really moved since he’d seen them from the master bedroom balcony.

Watching Seto play was always a source of fascination. Sure, it had been infuriating back in the day. The seriousness and anger he took to Duel Monsters, even when it wasn’t him dueling, was unpleasant at the time. But over the years, it had become endearing and intriguing. Sometimes, early on, Joey would even sit near Kaiba, during Yugi’s duels especially, just to hear the commentary. Kaiba was thoughtful and smart as hell, and his take on the game was as insightful as it was overly intense.

When Kaiba played other games, it was even more fun. Before they had met, Joey had never fathomed that someone could be completely engrossed in Operation!, or bring complete vitriol to Connect Four. Discovering that Guess Who could be played through carefully crafted insults to each figure’s appearance was delightful.

It had been one of the things Joey had kind of been looking forward to seeing in Kaiba when they had kids.

But… things don’t always pan out the way you want them to.

Joey took another sip from the coffee—Kaiba had put some sugar in it too, to Joey’s surprise. It had to be for him. Just that thought lit a spark in his chest that warmed him in a way that his bathrobe and flannel pajamas couldn’t.

Joey refocused on Kaiba, trying to discern exactly what the other man was doing in the snow. He was almost on his knees in the snow, and using his black-gloved hands to shape something. The packed snow was rather elegantly shaped, and even if it had been years since he had seen one in person, those white scales were incredibly iconic.

“Ay, Kaiba, is that?!”

With a finishing touch of black pebble eyes on the modestly-sized snow-dragon, Kaiba turned to face him dead-on.

Kaiba’s smirk was almost as haughty as it had been when he was a teen. He stood proudly in his winter coat, hands on his hips before the three-foot snow-dragon and pointed back at Joey with a flourish. “Attack with white lightning!”

Like magic, the kids turned on Joey. Snowballs were launched in his general direction and the kids made what Joey assumed were supposed to be dragon noises.

Joey was fortunate—the deck was pretty far from where they were playing, and the snowballs exploded harmlessly on the bannister or the porch in front of him. Alexis’s little screech was especially precious, even if her throw wasn’t.

Joey laughed so naturally that he didn’t realize he was doing it. When he composed himself again, he dramatically raised one hand, and pointed back. “I play my trap card,” Joey shouted into the fray, revolving enough to point at the kitchen behind him. “I’m making pancakes!”

Indeed, the promise of pancakes was more powerful than the lure of pretending to be dragons, and the kids cheered as they headed in.

Kaiba trailed the kids, looking oddly contemplative. Joey was about to leave and make good on his promise, but he was struck by the way Seto had his lips pressed together. He really looked like he was trying not to say something.

Joey gave him an expectant look, the space to say whatever it was that he was thinking.

“I never knew it could be this way.”

Joey tilted his head, blond hair flopping to the side. “What do you mean?”

Kaiba walked closer, within a few inches of Joey. With his thumb, Kaiba brushed a few snowflakes from the shorter man’s cheek. “I… didn’t realize that life could be this free.” And without any other comment or discussion, Kaiba composed himself and brushed past Joey. Leaving Joey with his now-chilly latte and distant thoughts.

…

Time slipped by quickly, the sands of the holiday magic hourglass rushing down as the finale approached.

The family had a holographic call with Mokuba and Yui, who expressed again how grateful they were to have the kids at their wedding. If Mokuba was surprised to see Joey and Kaiba alongside each other, not fighting, he didn’t show it.

After three years away from the high technology, Joey kind of saw the appeal of the holograms with fresh eyes. It was pretty neat to see Mokuba again, in three dimensions, glowing just a little in his living room. While Mokuba was patiently listening to Atticus explain how they were playing dragons this morning, Joey was just taking it in.

Then they sat down for another round of Christmas movies—this time all the classics. First was Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, which Kaiba insisted had an overly mature message, that being unique is respected only when someone else can profit off of it. Then was Frosty the Snowman, which Kaiba objected to on the grounds that it sent mixed messages about mortality. “It is like watching ‘All Dogs Go to Heaven’ if you actually had to watch the dog—”

“Kaiba, it’s fine, he’s a snowman.” Joey interrupted.

“He’s clearly sentient. He’s aware of his surroundings. Do you think he cannot feel his body melt—”

“Next movie!” Joey announced, clicking away.

Kaiba completely left the room for Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer, which was a pity, given how much of the runtime was dedicated to business decisions.

Kaiba only returned later, to poke his head around the corner and say that he had finished making dinner.

Joey wasn’t sure what to expect from Kaiba for a holiday dinner. Frankly, the times he had seen Kaiba cook were few and far between—he had helped out yesterday, but otherwise it was something of an informed ability. Kaiba said he could cook, but Joey supposed the proof would be in the literal pudding.

When they were dating, Kaiba was usually working and they would get take out or go out to dinner far more frequently than doing dinner at home. Joey couldn’t pinpoint exactly when the expectation of family meals had appeared—maybe after Atticus was born? Whenever it had happened, the family chef had appeared like magic.

Joey realized that maybe Kaiba had no idea what Joey’s cooking was like outside of this week either. That was a disturbing thought. How long could you spend with someone without ever learning what their cooking tasted like.

Joey was in for a pleasant surprise. It certainly wasn’t fancy, but tomato soup from a can—garnished with a basil leaf—and a decent stack of not-burnt grilled cheese sandwiches were waiting. With the snow falling gently outside, and the reflection of a few twinkling Christmas lights draped around the kitchen, it was a very pleasant scene.

It felt like too much to demand, but Joey bit into a perfectly buttery sandwich—crispy on the outside and gooey on the inside—and thought maybe he would like it if Kaiba cooked every night.

…

Finally, the kids were instructed that they needed to have an early bed time, as part of the last ditch efforts to convince Santa that they were good kids.

With certain designated cookies set out and carrots left for the reindeer, the kids were headed to bed.

“So… we didn’t wrap the presents last night,” Joey announced. Kaiba nodded, and they grimly turned toward the master bedroom to contemplate their fate.

The present pile was absolutely not representative of what Joey had purchased on his singular trip to the mall. At some point, quite deviously, Kaiba must have procured another thirty presents, through some assistant or something—Joey really could account for most of the time, and had them hidden in Joey’s secret present hiding place (unsurprisingly the master bedroom’s closet).

As a result, even with the two of them working to wrap presents, it had been almost three hours and they were still at it. Kaiba was frustratingly slow: he was both meticulous about straight edges and perfect tape amounts, and just slightly terrible at wrapping. It was brutally obvious he had never had to do it before, so even though the theory was easy for him, his long fingers struggled slightly with execution. It made the process even slower because Joey kept getting distracted, watching Kaiba’s long fingers fiddle with the paper and the tape.

“We can take a five minute break, we’ve been pretty busy this week,” Joey announced, stepping away from the supplies covered desk and flopping back on the bed.

Seto walked over and sat on the edge of pensively before curling into the fluffy duvet. “It’s true. Whatever doesn’t get wrapped can be saved for birthday presents.”

Joey graced him with a skeptical look.

“What?! You said you wanted it to be lower key,” Kaiba snapped back, offended. Kaiba looked down at his hands, tape resting on his pinky as he tried to get the fold just so on a small packet that was obviously a Duel Monsters cards booster pack.

The bags that were omnipresent under Kaiba’s eyes were etched just a little deeper than before. “A five minute break… sounds wise.”

Joey flopped backward onto the bed, avoiding the wrapping paper. Kaiba relaxed backwards as well.

Five minutes passed, and then another five. The bed was really soft and cozy. Joey knew it was much more comfortable than the guest room bed, and Kaiba was burrowing in somewhat.

The other man really did look peaceful, brown hair falling into his glasses, eyes finally closed and relaxed.

Two hours later, a quick glance at the bedside clock warned Joey that it was almost eleven at night. The lights had been extinguished, but the curtains hadn’t been drawn, leaving the room with a hazy glow from the bright snowscape and moon beyond the French doors.

Joey had dozed off on the bed and like magnets, Seto had ended up so close to him. Joey really hadn’t expected to wake up to the other man clinging to him for dear life, but it felt so nice. A pleasant weight, holding him, making him feel treasured. God only knew where his glasses had ended up.

Seto’s breath ghosted across Joey’s collarbone. “I missed you.” It was soft, sleep addled, and entirely sincere. His breaths were deep and warm, as if he was taking in everything about the situation that he could, inhaling the sleepy cozy scent of his partner, the soft detergent smell the dryer had left on Joey’s pajamas, the pine scented holiday candle that had been inadvertently left to burn for the last two hours.

Cuddling again felt so magical, after so long. Joey’s hand caught in Seto’s hair, soft brown strands running across his rougher fingers. His nails scraped lightly across Seto’s scalp, and Seto practically purred. It was enough to make the heat rise in Joey’s cheeks.

“I don’t want to let go of you,” Seto admitted to Joey. Seto looked up from where he was snuggled into Joey’s chest, eyes softer than Joey remembered them.

“Then don’t,” Joey answered, pulling Seto up so that their faces were perfectly aligned.

Staring into Kaiba’s eyes was always like this. It hit so deep, struck Joey right on the inside of his sternum. Something in the blue depths broke his heart every single time.

And Joey pulled him into a kiss. Seto’s mouth tasted the way that it always had. With his large hands grabbing at Joey’s back, clutching at the fabric, it felt the same way that it did before. When Seto deepened the kiss, when his tongue plunged into his mouth, nothing had changed.

But Seto pulled away, marking that Joey hadn’t truly time traveled. “I… are you sure you want to do this? I’m leaving tomorrow, Jounouchi.” Seto was so serious. The flush in his cheeks was just painted onto his ex-husband, the rest of his face was schooled into a business-like countenance. It almost made Joey forget the familiar hand on his hip, thumb stroking over his side.

Joey smiled, but he could feel the pinpricks behind his own eyes. “Then you better not ruin tonight, huh?”

Kaiba smirked, falling back into his role. “As you should well know,” Kaiba dived into Joey’s neck, sucking and biting something fierce, “I always rise to a challenge.”

Kaiba’s hand drifted up, grasping for Joey’s shirt and tearing it off. “If I remember correctly,” Kaiba continued, crawling down his body and quickly arriving at his cock, “and I always do,” Kaiba’s eyes flashed up to meet Joey’s, devious and dirty be fore pulling down Joey’s pajama pants, exposing his dick to the tense air of their bedroom, “I have some reliable methods for ensuring this is worth your time.”

“You talk too—” Joey attempted to complain, but Kaiba’s mouth on his hardening penis cut him off. A shock of lust zapped through is body, reaching the ache in his chest.

As Seto sucked gently—cheeks hollow and eyes closed in focus, Joey felt the lust course through him. But also a sense of comfort, of safety, and of loss. Each jolt of pleasure also triggered something cruel and bittersweet.

Joey tried to hold off, knowing that the sooner he came, the sooner it would end. The fantasy of having his husband back, adoring him in the most intimate way, would be over, even as the pangs of pleasure rippled through him.

But it was hard. Kaiba was an obsessive man, and when pleasuring Joey was his focus, he was meticulous in mastering its intricacies. One of Kaiba’s hands was caressing his inner thigh, alternating worshipful touches and soft, stinging scratches that dragged needy whines from Joey’s lips.

Just when Joey was certain he wouldn’t be able to hold on for any longer, the pressure building inside, threatening to spill out, Kaiba disengaged. A bit of pre-cum mixed with spit bridged between his plush lips and Joey’s rock hard cock. The light glinted off of the dew on Kaiba’s mouth, and accentuated the way that his lips were trembling.

Kaiba slid up, rolling over far enough to reach the top drawer of the night stand. And, just as if no time had passed, a bottle of lube was waiting for him. Joey’s eyes lingered on the way Kaiba poured it along his hands, leaving them glistening in the reflection of the moonlight off of the freshly fallen snow.

Kaiba removed his own sweatpants, and Joey’s eyes could see how devastatingly hard Kaiba was. The full body shiver that ran through him just touching himself in order to lube his own cock. And when he looked back over at Joey, the determination in his eyes was so intense, it was almost scary.

Kaiba crawled over, hands framing Joey’s head, heat radiating off of his body in hot waves, cocks threatening to touch. “I want you so bad, Jounouchi,” he whispered, voice husky from sucking him off.

“Then take me, Kaiba. You never had a problem taking what you want before,” Joey issued the challenge with a hint more menace than he had realized was there.

And the restraint was lifted. Joey hadn’t really realized there ever was any restraint, but with Kaiba’s fingers plunged into his tight opening, searching and quickly finding the familiar magic spot, maybe his partner had been holding back.

With only so many desperate thrusts of his fingers, Kaiba withdrew them. Joey almost moaned at the loss, wanting to tell his partner there was no rush. That they had enough time for everything, make love like they used to—languid and peaceful, wasteful of time.

Any complaints were silenced as he felt Kaiba’s thick cock enter him. Joey was lost in the sensations, swimming in the lust. The only things he could keep track of were the thrusts, the feeling of Seto’s hips and thighs rhythmically moving against his own. The white hot pulse of Kaiba coming inside of him, and that perfect moment, when he felt full and complete. Finally coming himself, untouched, semen spilling over his own stomach.

Even though it was sticky, and would soon be uncomfortable, he hated when Kaiba withdrew. His heart ached when he handed him a damp towel from the in suite, and when Kaiba gathered his pajamas, prepared to walk to the guest room.

Joey had to go back in his memory all the way to their earliest days to remember Kaiba getting up immediately after sex. Once their relationship was, well, a relationship and not a duel to see who could keep the connection more casual, Kaiba loved to be close afterwards. Even if he didn’t necessarily snuggle, he was usually present, sharing small smiles and holding Joey until he fell asleep.

“Don’t.”

Kaiba froze. And then he looked back, more surprised than he should have been.

The look on his face sent Joey to the early days of their courtship, when Kaiba would wear that same expression as he gathered up arm-belts as he bailed from Joey’s shit apartment back in Domino.

But that they had shared this exact bedroom for six years.

Joey hadn’t even changed up the pictures on the walls—shamefully enough, a wedding photo still sat on the dresser. Their trapped smiling faces judging the messy entanglement that their romance had become.

“Don’t leave me,” Joey choked out. Don’t leave me again went unspoken. He didn’t have that bad of a time saying how he felt, but Kaiba always tested the limits, made him want to withdraw into himself. It took some kind of bravery to be open with his feelings now, and it swelled in his chest. “I want you to stay the night, here.”

Kaiba nodded slowly, and dressed in his pajamas. He sat down on the bed carefully, cautious, like he hadn’t slept there a thousand times before. It almost seemed like he didn’t trust the mattress not to turn to dust beneath him.

And then he laid in bed like a corpse in a coffin, careful to bind his arms to his waist.

With a deep sigh, Joey said, “Ah come on. We just fucked, Kaiba. You can uh… you can touch me, if you wanna.”

Kaiba looked over. In the darkness, the glow of the moon-touched snow glinted in his eyes, sparking something mysterious. “We… did.” He looked a little bit like a cryptid, something not quite of this world, trapped in a reality he couldn’t totally understand.

“I don’t regret it,” Joey said, though his voice betrayed a bit of his uncertainty. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Hn.” Kaiba scoffed.

“Yeah, I shoulda seen that one coming,” Joey said, leaning back against his pillow. It was somehow entirely foreign to have another man in his bed, and yet also familiar. Like Kaiba had never been there before, but also like he had never left.

The warmth was almost that of a phantom sensation—almost close enough to touch, just far enough away to feel like a figment of his imagination.

And then, somewhat suddenly, Joey felt the familiar hands of his ex-husband wrap around his arm. Just like that, Kaiba crept back into his space, foreheads almost touching, straight brown hair entangling in unruly blond strands. Joey could feel each exhale of Kaiba’s against his cheek. They were soft and rhythmic, pantomiming sleep.

Joey was surprised when he didn’t tense up at the contact. When they both melted into the shared cozy warmth under the quilt. When his own breathing turned more evenly paced.

He was falling asleep in that most literal sense, the experience of complete relaxation where one sinks through the mattress and into the dream world.

Somewhere in that sinking, the purgatory between sleeping and wakefulness, Joey could have sworn he heard Kaiba whisper “I still love you” in his gravelly tone.

But it could have been just a dream.

#puppyshipping #Violetshipping #my fic #seto kaiba #Kaiba Seto #Jounouchi Katsuya #Joey Wheeler #update schedule is hitting the point where the chapters are posted on the dates when they occur.#that's fun and sexy #right??

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patandpran · 4 years

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The Nuisance and the Handsome Prince - A Sarawatine Medieval AU - Chapter 19

Tine is an aspiring Squire who has been training his whole life to work alongside the Kingdom’s finest Knights. Sarawat is a Prince who, on the outside, seems fierce and unapproachable. He is disinterested in any of his royal duties, namely his Knight training. What happens when Tine is assigned to be the fierce and handsome prince’s Squire?

Find the Masterpost here Read on Archiveofourown here.

Sarawat woke and his head felt like it had been shattered into a million pieces. There was a part of him that wanted to open his eyes but another warned him of the consequences of that action. The pain would not exactly be manageable.

“Wat…?”

Sarawat heard a voice calling to him and it made warmth spread through him, extinguishing some of the pain that he was in.

“Wat…. Oh, god. Please wake up.”

When Sarawat recognized the voice as Tine’s, his eyes sprang open and the pain exploded behind his eyes. How had he got here? He could smell the irony tang of his own blood and the dankness of tepid water that loomed in the dungeons.

“You’re okay…”

The sound of relief in Tine’s voice made Sarawat swell with hope. He winced in concentration, willing his blurry vision to focus enough to make out Tine in the distant. As he focused, suddenly he was able to see that he was separated from the man that he loved by cell bars.

The Prince was locked in a cell as well.

“What the hell?” Sarawat cried out in shock as he rushed toward the bars, wrapping his hands around them and shaking them will all his remaining strength.

Tine watched in anguish as the Prince let out a howl of frustration before he crumpled into a helpless heap. Tine wished he could reach Sarawat to comfort him in some way but he wasn’t sure there was anything that could help the Prince at this point.

“Sarawat… how is your head?”

Tine asked gently after a few minutes of silence. He needed to know if Boss had caused any permanent damage to the Prince. Tine couldn’t wait to get his hands on Boss, although he wondered if he would ever have the chance to. Their fates did not exactly look very promising at the present moment.

“I’m fine.”

Sarawat responded but the weakness in his voice betrayed him. It would take a while for the Prince to get his strength back but it didn’t seem to matter at that point. Sarawat slowly maneuvered himself so that his back was against the cold stone wall of the cell. He held his head in his hands and breathed deeply in an attempt to keep the pain at bay.

“This is all my fault.” Tine murmured in sudden horror.

Sarawat was broken and bloodied because of him and nothing else. If Tine had never going to the Squire Trials, if he had never been so selfishly driven by revenge, the Prince would not be in this position. Tine’s eyes welled with tears at the realization. “Wat, I’m so sorry.” Tine continued but the Prince looked up at Tine with a determined look on his face.

“Tine.” Sarawat stated. “There is something more at work here, something bigger than us. I was lured here and I think this is only one step of the plan. I want you to hear this clearly: this is not your fault. I chose to come here, knowing very well that there was a chance I was walking into a trap. That didn’t matter to me. You are worth it.”

“I am not worth your freedom!” Tine argued, his frustration with himself pouring out as tears began to stain his cheeks. “You have to stop loving me, Sarawat, it’s going to be the death of you.”

Sarawat’s gaze softened slightly and a shy smile stretched across his lips. “Loving you is both the best and stupidest thing I’ve ever done but there’s not one part of me that regrets it.”

Tine would never stop being surprised by Sarawat’s words. Even when he heard them for the first time, it was so hard to fathom that the Prince loved someone as ordinary and common as him.

“…I love you too, you know.” Tine admitted as he wiped away his tears. “I don’t know when it started but… denying it is like denying the moon hanging in the sky at night.”

“The moon…” Sarawat repeated in a hushed tone. He had a look of focus in his eyes as if he was trying to remember something.

Tine’s eyes grew wide and he questioned, “The moon? That’s what you’re taking away from the fact that I just confessed my feelings for you?”

Sarawat looked up apologetically at Tine. “No, I’m sorry. That just reminded me of something that my Mother said to me… she told me to look to the moon for help… but… I’m not sure what that means…”

“Wat…” Tine deadpanned. “I just told you that I love you.”

Sarawat smiled mischievously. “Maybe I just wanted to hear it again.”

Tine found himself laughing through tears. Of course Sarawat would be the one to make a joke at a time like this. Sarawat moved closer to the front of the cell and muttered, “The irony that we’re able to say that to one another now that we’re locked away together.”

“Better than being locked away alone.” Tine expressed half-heartedly. “What do you think they’re planning to do with us anyway?”

“I think there is a plot to get my Father off the throne.” Sarawat explained darkly. “And with me out of the way, I can’t become the King either and Phukong is not of age yet.”

“What about your Mother?” Tine asked. “Would she not just become Queen of the realm?”

“She is not of royal blood.” Sarawat muttered. “It is an archaic detail but if you are not of the lineage, you cannot take the throne.”

“That should be the first thing you change when you are crowned.” Tine suggested, his brow furrowed.

“If I am crowned…” Sarawat corrected.

“I won’t let anything happen to you.” Tine promised the Prince. “Not while I am breathing.”

“See that’s the problem…” Sarawat’s gaze dropped to the ground. “I am not sure how much longer they are going to let us live…”

The silence that filled up the dungeon was suffocating. Tine knew the likelihood of walking out of the castle alive was slim but the idea of Sarawat being harmed made his blood boil.

They had to find a way out….

++++++++++++++

The next morning the Castle was in complete disarray.

The news that the Prince had fled the castle with his Squire spread like wildfire. A letter had been found in the East Tower detailing his plan of escape with Tine who he had freed from the Dungeon. The Queen and King had yet to make a statement about the matter but the Queen’s sobs could be heard throughout the castle.

No one was exactly sure how they had made their escape in the dead of the night but a search party had been sent out to find them and extra Guards were patrolling the Castle halls and courtyard, lead by the Head Knight.

The Revelries for that evening had been put on hold until the Prince’s return (if he returned). Ohm was pacing the hall outside of the Kitchen, waiting for Fong to emerge. He felt sick to his stomach. He had a hard time believing that Tine would just run away. It was unlike his best friend to escape his problems in such a way.

Fong slipped into the hallway and a look of relief spread across his face when he saw Ohm. “I was worried that you had gone as well…” Fong admitted, looking a bit sheepish.

“I wouldn’t leave you.” Ohm responded and took Fong’s hands in his to lead him to a spot that was much more private.

Ohm bowed his head down to meet Fong’s so there foreheads were touching. Even though they had been alone together many times before, Fong still felt his heart racing as Ohm looked down at him through thick eyelashes.

“I was worried that they were going to take you into custody too.” Fong shared, feeling Ohm’s breath dancing on his cheek.

“Just in case, I better do this now… before it’s too late.” Ohm responded and leaned down to press his lips against Fong’s.

Fong’s eyes closed and melted into the kiss immediately, hoping to goodness that no one would interrupt them. He had imagine what it would be like to kiss the Squire a million times before but nothing lived up to the real thing.

When they separated, it took a moment for Fong to regain his breath and Ohm looked shyer than he ever had before. Fong brought one hand up to Ohm’s face and gently brought his thumb along the edge of Ohm’s jaw.

An awkward cough caused Fong and Ohm to put distance between them. Sir Man stood, looking somewhere between amused and embarrassed. Ohm turned toward the Knight and asked, “Anything?”

“There has been no sign of the Prince or Tine at their family residence.” Man explained in a serious tone. “Tine and Type’s father is still in hiding but this has made keeping him safe even more complicated… Has Mil awoken yet?”

Ohm shook his head, “He remains unconscious but the younger Prince has gone to visit him quite a few times… I know I might be biased but I don’t think Mil has anything to do with the Prince and Tine’s disappearance.”

“Sarawat would not just run away like this.” Man shook his head in disbelief. “And I don’t think Tine would either… something else is at play here but what?”

“What are you all whispering about in the corner like this?”

Man, Fong and Ohm jumped at the voice. Sir Boss looked between the three of them with suspicion in his eyes. His usual Jester-like energy was nowhere to be seen and instead he had adopted quite a serious demeanour.

“We were just discussing the Prince’s… escape.” Man blurted out to satiate his friend’s curiosity.

Sir Boss raised an eyebrow. “Yes, it is quite out of character for Sarawat to take such a sudden leave like this… that Squire of his really turned the Prince into someone I don’t even recognize…”

Fong put a hand on Ohm who’s own hands had turned into defensive fists. He knew better than to start a fight with a Knight but a part of him was somewhat willing to take the risk to defend Tine’s honour.

“Boss.” Man hissed, his eyes narrowed in warning. “You really should keep your opinions to yourself sometimes.”

Boss rolled his eyes and turned away from Ohm and Fong, focusing his attention on Man. “The Head Knight needs us for consultation. He knows we are close with the Prince so he wants us to share any information we might have on where he might have gone.”

Ohm wondered why Boss seemed so different than before. It was as if he had dropped an act that he had been playing for quite a long time. Even Man seemed off-put by the change as he nodded at his friend. With that, Boss stalked off and seemed to expect for Man to follow.

Man hung back for a brief moment and murmured to Ohm, “Go see Green. He is one of us. I will report back anything I find. Be careful who you trust. By the Moon.”

“By the Moon.” Ohm murmured back and slipped his hand into Fong’s, squeezing it tightly, as he watched Man run to catch up with Boss.

++++++++++++++++++++

Phukong chewed his lip with worry as he watched Mil’s chest rise and fall.

There was so much slipping through his fingers and he felt like he could barely grasp any of it. First Mil and now his brother was gone too. Everything felt like it was falling apart just as he started to discover what his purpose was.

His plan had worked but he did not think that this would be the aftermath. There were too many casualties and something seemed to be amiss. If Phukong could only figure out what it was… Why had his brother done something so out of character? Why had Sarawat not consulted him first?

The younger Prince had spent the entire morning consoling his Mother while his Father raged at the discovery of Sarawat’s letter. Phukong knew better than to protest his father’s reaction and instead focused his energy on comforting his Mother.

It didn’t take long for his Father to storm out of the room which is when his Mother had murmured, in somewhat of a daze, “You have done enough, my son. Please… if you can, go ask the Bear if he knows where the Wolf is.”

Worry and grief changed people. For Phukong, worry lived in his chest. As he watched Mil, seemingly sleeping peacefully, he felt like it was hard to breathe. He was somewhat envious of Mil’s state. He wished he could escape into a worry-free world like Mil was living in.

Phukong knew there were no answers that he could receive from an unconscious Mil. He did not have the time to linger any longer, even though his heart was tethering him to the spot.

As he was the son of the Head Knight, Mil had a private room in the Infirmary. Phukong looked around to check if they were alone and crouched down beside the bed, “Please come back to me, Mil. Sarawat is gone and…. without you too, it’s too much. I need you.”

Phukong rose to his feet and leaned forward to press his lips to Mil’s forehead. Even though their last few interactions had not been the most pleasant, Phukong still cared deeply for the man that lay before him and he hoped desperately that he would wake up soon.

++++++++++++

“The Revelries will go forward this evening.” The King declared to the crowd. “With or without the Prince.”

The Head Knight stood to the right of the King with a smug look on his face. It had not taken much to convince the King to go forward with the event. Mentions of ‘civil unrest’ and ‘doubt from the people’ were enough to make the Celebrations be re-scheduled, despite the Prince’s absence.

Ohm scowled at the announcement and knew that he needed to find Green as soon as possible. He weaved through the crowd in the courtyard and made his way toward Green’s Quarters. He did not know the Royal Tailor well but Ohm knew enough to trust the man.

He knocked on the Tailor’s door and Green’s assistant, Pear, was the one to open it. “Can we help you, Squire?”

“I hope so.” Ohm murmured, his voice low. “I am looking for some attire for this evening’s event.”

Pear opened the door all the way and nodded for Ohm to come in. When Ohm walked in the door, he saw that a small council of people stood within the Tailor’s quarters. Pear closed the door behind him and he drank in those who surrounded him.

Ohm bowed his head and murmured, “By the Moon.”

“By the Moon.” The rest of the room chorused back, guaranteeing their allegiance to the cause.

+++++++++++++

Mil’s head hurt like hell. He felt like he had not drank water in weeks and his stomach was tied in knots. He felt like he was waking up from a nightmare, loose bits of disjointed information that had been shared with him floated into his memory.

“not when you become the Prince of the Kingdom after I’m through…”

His Father’s words sounded in his mind and Mil shot up in his bed, breathing raggedly at the realization of what horrors his Father was going to commit to achieve his goals.

The image of Sarawat’s face before the Prince attacked him flashed in Mil’s mind. The visual made him wince with guilt and

The Head Knight had told him every step of the plan. Mil could stop him. He could make it up to Sarawat…. he could make it up to Phukong.

Mil’s hand subconsciously floated to his forehead where he remembered Phukong had kissed him earlier that day. He had wanted to wake up so badly but his mind had not quite been ready to regain consciousness. He wished he could tell Phukong how sorry he was. He wished he could find him, wrap his arms around the younger Prince and tell him how stupid he had been, how selfish he had been.

While Mil had always wanted his Father’s approval, it was time for Mil to start thinking on his own. This wasn’t for the better of the Kingdom. It was for his Father’s own benefit. The man was not driven by justice or any other purpose than selfishness. It was for the gaining of power and power alone.

But now Mil had to take action, despite how weak he felt. He knew where the Prince was and he had to be by his friend’s side. He couldn’t abandon him in a time like this, not when everything was at stake.

Mil saw that the sword that Tine’s father had crafted lay by his bedside. When his Father told him the truth about the sword and Tine’s identity, it had felt like such a slap in the face but now Mil knew that there was more to all this than his personal feelings or opinions about one individual. Even if that individual was who his best friend cared for more than the world.

Mil grabbed the sword and jumped to his feet, determined to make up for his past mistakes and misjudgements.

“Wat. I’m coming.”

++++++++++++

The Queen looked out the East Tower window at the Moon. Change was coming and while she did not know where her eldest son was presently, she knew that he was not far. Her tears earlier that day had been for show. She was stronger than that and trusted her son implicitly.

“Everything is falling into place, Your Highness.”

The Queen turned her head to see Fang lingering in the doorway, a focused look on the Knight’s face.

The Queen nodded slowly, a small smile on her lips. “Yes, Fang. I know it as surely as the Moon hangs in the sky.”

#2gether #sarawatine #the nuisance and the handsome prince #ohmfong #mantype #milphukong #cass writes #my writing

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sea-and-storm · 4 years

Text

FFXIV WRITE 2020: Muster (#3)

Naught but the sound of waves lapping against the Wavecutter's hull outside the port window filled the silence that hung between Arukh and Ghoa as the latter intently focused upon changing his bandages. It had been much the same the previous evenings that she had done so, scarcely more than a handful of words spoken between them and all pertaining solely to how his recovery was progressing. Though she hadn't been cold or unkind towards him in those times, there was no denying the awkwardness as she pointedly ignored the figurative elephant in the room: that he was family she had never known to exist, and had likely never expected to meet.

At first, after the revelation on his part, the older Mankhad was resolved to let her come to him. He hadn't doubted that she had innumerable questions, and it was only fair that he answer them, no matter how difficult the answers might have been to give and receive. It was a lot for one person to handle, especially so abruptly, and so he wished not to force such emotion and discomfort upon her. And indeed, it seemed after that first night the subject had been delicately traipsed around that his instinct not to press the matter rang true.

The second night, he had suspected that the questions would finally come. Yet again, however, Ghoa had only asked how he felt and saw to the wounds that the Jhungid witch's shadows had inflicted upon him. No mention of their relation or their family or their people. Admittedly, he thought it surprising, if not a touch strange that Ghoa still seemed to be avoiding the subject. But maybe, he supposed, she only needed more time to process what had happened, what it meant. Maybe she needed more time to even decide what her questions were to begin with. After all, she couldn't have come to that cove prepared to ask them, no more than he had been prepared to have them asked. And so, once more, he let it be and simply bade her a good night's rest.

Now on the third night, Arukh was all but certain that the conversation would finally be upon them. Tomorrow they would disembark and make their trek to the ruins, and surely Ghoa knew as well as he that there would likely be no time for such conversations once they set out. If they were ever to discuss it, then tonight would be their last guaranteed chance to do so.

However, when his sister came to his room at her usual hour, things had proceeded much the same as they had the nights prior. There was a bit more pensiveness about her as she worked, he had observed, and perhaps even a hint of conflict. So he waited for her to finally broach the subject, and waited, and waited..

"Well then," she sighed as she finished tying off the last of the fresh bandages. "The wounds could stand a bit more time and rest, truly, but given that both are luxuries currently in short supply.. It seems to me that you should be fit enough for what's to come on the morrow." She flashed him a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes as she stood from the cot. "Rest well, Arukh."

He stared in disbelief as she turned from him and started towards the door, and in his shock, she had nearly slipped out of the room entirely before he found his voice again.

"Ghoa," he called out after her as her hand reached out for the door.

Perhaps as if anticipating the very words about to come out of his mouth, she froze there in place. Her posture changed, tension slowly taking root across her shoulders. Her hand lingered upon the knob for a tick, two ticks, three.. before it finally fell away, and she turned back towards him.

"Yes..?" She answered, hesitation palpable. "Is aught amiss?"

Arukh paused then, a momentary pang of guilt arising in his stomach. It was clear that she still held reservations, and he knew it was not his place to force them from her. Yet he could not fathom why she would seemingly surrender what perhaps might have been her only chance to get the answers to questions that he knew she had to harbor. That he would survive this excursion was no guarantee, after all. If he were lost, then she had to understand that those answers would very well die with him. The only explanation that made any sense to him was that she was afraid of what those answers might be, and while he certainly could not fault her for such, neither could he sit idly by as what may have been her singular opportunity for clarity slipped through her fingers without him having said a word.

"Three suns and you've not asked the first question of me," he began, his tone carefully even and bereft of judgment. She flinched ever so slightly, and her gaze averted across the room. Sensing another evasion eminent, he added in a voice that betrayed his pleading, "You must know that if you do not ask them now, then you may never--"

"Stop."

Ghoa's interruption had come so suddenly and unexpectedly, with such conviction that his words, indeed, died on his lips. Brows lofted, he stared at her, and finally her silver gaze turned back to meet his as a grimace twisted her lips.

"I haven't asked because I cannot afford to," Ghoa began, her voice scarcely above a whisper. "What we are soon to be walking into, it requires all of us to be at our best." She inhaled deeply, and slowly exhaled through her nose as her eyes closed, taking a moment to steady the quavering of her voice before she pressed on. "And there are people that will be counting on me -- with their lives, perhaps -- to be prepared for it.

"I already know well how that which calls those ruins home is wont to prey upon whatever weaknesses are harbored within a person's mind, and there is plenty else which already haunts me without giving the darkness yet more to sup upon. These questions of mine, of which there are assuredly plenty, must wait until the danger is passed. I've no other choice lest I wish to put myself and those I seek to protect endangered." Her gaze softened, and her shoulders slumped in resignation. "It has taken me three suns now to muster up my courage to make my peace with the knowledge that a lifetime of questions may forever go unanswered. So please, Arukh, leave it be.. I don't know if I have within me the resolve to deny myself this opportunity a second time."

The silence between them returned again; brief this time, in actuality, though it seemed to Arukh to last a lifetime. It was not simply anger or indignation or even sadness that stilled his tongue now, but a lack of words altogether as he struggled to voice that which her words stirred in him. Perhaps it was foolishness, he realized, now that he had to be again reminded that Ghoa had never needed anybody else to find her strength for her. He had watched her grow within an isolated childhood, bereft of the warmth and support of family, into a capable young woman. He had witnessed the indignities she had suffered at Kharlu hands, as well as her dsring escape from them atop a stolen mare in the dead of night. Hearing her own words now, he could only imagine all else which she had endured in the years since that he had not been present to witness.

It was not fear that stopped her at all, as it never had. It was selflessness.

"You speak of weakness in yourself, but I believe you to be far stronger than what you give yourself credit for," he finally managed, a hint of pride lacing his words and a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "But I understand. These words shall wait, and I'll do all within my power to ensure that we both have the opportunity to speak them once all is settled."

The tired, anxious look that had taken up residence on her familiar features gave way first to relief, then to warmth as she mirrored his smile with her own.

"And I shall do the same," she agreed. "So let us both now put this out of mind and get our rest. There shall be plenty of time after for us to get properly acquainted."

#ffxivwrite2020 #prompt 3: muster #ghoa mankhad #arukh mankhad #GHOA AND BIG BROA #been sitting on this drabble for a hot minute #glad to finally get it out #now i cant wait for mr. arukh 'my rolls are cursed' mankhad to die #before they get to continue this conversation #calling it now #cigarettes & fireflies #c&f

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royalcordelia · 5 years

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The Secret of Distance (4/?)

Summary: Anne and Gilbert embark on their journeys, but stay close to each other at heart. Courting across 1000 miles isn't easy, but they're more than willing to step up to the task. (A post s3 story).

Notes: Welcome, welcome, welcome to all our new AWAE buddies! It’s my pleasure to see a bunch of new faces (and accompanying thoughts) in the fandom. (As always, tag buddies are at the bottom!)

Even in late October, a line of warblers and chickadees sat at the top of the boarding house’s ridgepole and turned the wind to a haven of effervescent song. It gated the garden in, blocking it from the rest of the bustling city. Anne took a deep breath of the fresh air, relishing the way it felt crisp in her chest. The journal on her lap was seemingly forgotten, the last sentence yet unfinished - “With one look at George, Averil realized...” Though the perfect way to complete the sentence evaded her, Anne didn’t fret. In these moments of near silence and endless inspiration, she felt helpless to do anything but reach into the essence of nature and let it tell her what to say.

Then, as if she had turned an open palm to the sky and the phrase flitted down into it, she murmured, “Got it!” Her beloved fountain pen scratched across the page as she wrote. “With one look at George, Averil decided ideals weren’t terribly silly notions, after all. The trick, she realized, was knowing your one’s own ideals as well as one knows themself. George may not have been the melancholy Apollo of her girlhood dreams, but he was steadfast and compassionate. Only in George’s embrace would she feel truly as if she was right where she belonged.

With a sigh, Anne closed the journal. What a wonderful feeling it was to finally complete a story! To give a break to endless essays and readings and merely be with the words of her soul. Averil was a heroine truly deserving of her steadfast and compassionate suitor, even if writing about him did make Anne miss her own.

Before her thoughts could drift too far away to her hazel-eyed love, she heard the back porch door open. There was Lily, wearing her usual kind smile and a perfectly white apron.

“You blend in with the trees!” Lily signed from the porch. Anne spared a glance around at the sunset colored leaves drenched in the afternoon’s golden light.

“One always blends well among friends,” Anne replied, hands forming what she was nearly certain were the correct signs.

Anne had discovered, much to her surprise, that she was the first person to ever really ask Lily to teach them sign language. Past boarders had picked some up over the duration of their stay, but never tried their hands at it - as it were. But Anne wondered what a life must be like spent mostly watching and not expressing. If Lily had truths and passions of her heart that she wanted to share, it wasn’t fair that a barrier should come between them. Thus, every night, Lily sat Anne down at the dining table and taught Anne her language. Anne thought it was beautiful and challenging the way the language focused on meaning rather than the way a thing was said. Nearly three months later, Anne was more proficient than she dreamed she could be, though there was still so much to learn.

“You should come inside,” Lily said, her face suddenly taking an apprehensive expression. “ I think you have a visitor, but Mrs. Blackmore won’t receive him.”

Snatching up her journal, Anne quickly thanked Lily and followed her inside. It wasn’t long before she heard Mrs. Blackmore’s exasperated voice echoing on the thin walls of the home.

“This is entirely uncalled for! In all my years of keeping this house I’ve never -”

“I promise ma’am, I don’t mean to intrude. I was just in town and thought-”

“I don’t want to imagine what you thought!”

Anne gasped. She’d recognize that voice anywhere. Bursting into the entryway, she met eyes with an equal parts frustrated and awkward Bash. He clutched Mary’s old carpet bag in his hand, the fabric crumpling under the strain. As soon as he saw Anne, relief flooded his eyes before elation took its place.

“Bash! What are you doing here?” she exclaimed with a joyful laugh, throwing her arms around his neck. Anne wasn’t sure what shocked Mrs. Blackmore more, Anne hugging Bash, or him lifting her off the ground to shake her.

“I was in town and thought I’d visit! I didn’t get a chance to see you before you left Avonlea,” he replied. “I don’t mind sayin’ that I’ve missed you terrible.”

“Believe me, I’ve missed you all so much.”

“Some more than others,” he said, cocking a brow. Anne nudged him and stepped back to Mrs. Blackmore.

“Mrs. Blackmore, this is Sebastian Lacroix, a very close family friend of mine and my suitor’s brother.”

“Suitor , eh?” Bash murmured. Anne gave him another light whack on the arm.

“Bash, this Mrs. Blackmore. She so graciously allows me a roof over my head and a meal on the table.”

By the look on her face, Mrs. Blackmore wasn’t feeling so very gracious to provide any of those things to anyone. Still, Bash managed a friendly smile and offered his hand. “It’s a fine pleasure to meet you, ma’am. Sorry about the scare.” Mrs. Blackmore peered down at his hand, weathered from years of labor, her lip curling in disgust.

“I’m sorry, Anne, but your guest cannot stay,” she stated with finality.

“What ?!”

“I don’t say a thing twice.”

A blush rose up Anne’s neck, whether from rage or embarrassment she could not say. She grabbed the woman’s wrist, dragging her away from Bash’s hearing distance.

“Pardon me if I’m having trouble understanding why my guest is not allowed to stay. He’s not my suitor, and therefore he isn’t confined to Saturday afternoons. He came in respectable clothes at a respectable hour, which is more than we can say of some guests we’ve received-”

“Anne.”

“Why, just three days ago, Tillie had several rowdy guests in the parlor and I heard not a complaint from you. In fact, I commend you on your cordiality. So please, Mrs. Blackmore, I’d like to know why my guest can’t be treated with the same courtesy. It goes against our Presbyterian duty to hospitality and-”

“Alright!” Mrs. Blackmore interjected. It was enough that Bash’s wandering gaze snapped over to them, before darting away. “He can stay until dinner.”

Anne frowned. Dinner was only thirty minutes away. “He should stay for dinner.”

“What will the other girls think?”

“The other girls know him! They all love him. Mrs. Blackmore, please!”

There was no stronger persuading force than reminding a good Christian woman of her Presbyterian duty, even in the face of unrelenting prejudice. Not to mention, Mrs. Blackmore was quickly running out of excuses. With an exhausted sigh, the older woman threw up her hands in defeat.

“Lily, add another place setting to the table. We’re having a guest for dinner,” said Mrs. Blackmore’s lips and hands. Lily tossed Anne a victorious smile, curtising first to their guest, then to the other ladies, before flitting off to the dining room. Anne turned to thank Mrs. Blackmore for her understanding, but found the tired woman halfway up the stairs. With a sheepish smile, she looked to Bash.

“I’m so sorry about that. She’s usually one of the kindest people I know,” she explained. “Please, come in!”

“I’m just glad to see you. Avonlea is so much quieter without you and Gilbert around. Every day I wait for you to show up at our door with a bouquet of flowers or a basket of Marilla’s plum puffs.”

At the mention of Gilbert, Anne perked her ears, but folded her hands in her lap to keep her fingers from tapping.

“I hope that my absence hasn’t meant Marilla stops baking for you.”

“Of course not, she just delivers them herself. I think she does it as an excuse to come and visit Delphine. Not that she needs one. Probably misses having a child around.”

A tender smile lifted Anne’s lips.

“Everything is well back home then?” she asked hopefully. As close as Avonlea was - 45 minutes was admittedly not a long train ride - sometimes she couldn’t help but feel like she was on the other side of the planet from home. And Gilbert even farther.

“The harvest is going well. For me, it’s strange not having the extra pair of hands, but we’re managing.” Bash paused, opening his mouth before closing it again.

“Go ahead, Bash, whatever it is,” Anne prodded, already having a sneaking suspicion what he was about to say. Like a carbonated bottle shaken up, Bash threw up his hands and slammed them on his knees.

“I’m dying to know how it happened! One minute he’s moping around the kitchen tellin’ me his feelings for you are unrequited, and the next he’s breaking off his engagement and moving to Toronto.”

A burst of laughter burst out of Anne.

“He never told you? He tells you everything!”

A joking shadow of regret came over Bash and he shrugged, “I think I teased him too much in the years leading up to it that the poor boy couldn’t take anymore. Besides, I think he’d rather spend his letter-writing time writing to someone else.”

“My goodness, how long have you been teasing him?”

“About you? Almost since the day I met him.” Anne’s cheeks turned rose kissed and she bit her lip against a satisfied smile. “You gonna tell me or no, Queen Anne?”

“It’s strange, there’s so much to tell and yet it’s all such a simple story,” she began. “My best friend, Diana, was riding the same train out of Carmody that Gilbert was. She heard him say that he wasn’t engaged, nor was he going to Paris. He almost got away, too. But Diana moved to his seat and demanded to know why he’d been behaving toward me the way he was, why he’d ignored the letter I wrote to him.”

“Well, why did he?”

“He never received it. I left it on your table, so I can’t fathom what could have possibly happened to it. When Diana told him what my letter said, he all but jumped out of the train window to find me. He showed up here, cleared up the biggest misunderstanding between us, then rushed off to Toronto. As for me, I ran into Winifred in town. She informed me, as you said, that Gilbert believed his feelings were unrequited. I did my best to ensure him otherwise.”

Bash whistled. “The Almighty really been trying his hardest to match you two up and you’ve given him the hardest time. I’m very glad it worked for you.” His gaze turned down the carpet bag beside him. Anne had forgotten about it in the midst of her storytelling, but she watched with interest as he pulled it into his lap. “There’s actually a reason I came today.”

Anne lifted a brow with a curious smile.

“Gilbert left for Toronto in such a hurry that he left behind some of the things I think he’d like to have with him. I was wondering if you’d take them to him for me.”

“Me?”

“I can’t leave Delphine for too long. Or the harvest for that matter.” He handed her the bag’s worn handles, but Anne handed them right back.

“I’d love to, truly, but I don’t have enough money for the train or a hotel.”

Bash scoffed. “Already taken care of. There’s an envelope with train fare in the bag, enough to get you there and back. Gilbert has a guest room you can stay in, so a hotel won’t be necessary.”

Anne could feel herself being won over, but she was still hesitant. “What about Marilla?”

A wicked glint flickered in his eyes that Anne looked strikingly familiar to one she’d seen right before a boy tugged her braid. “We don’t have to tell Marilla.” Anne could feel her resolve draining away, but what settled her mind was, “He’d be real happy to see you, Anne. I think he’s been homesick.”

With an excited smile, Anne yanked back the carpet bag and gave a beaming grin.

“Okay, I’ll go this weekend,” she stated, elation bubbling over.

“Good. I’m thankful to you.”

After dinner when Bash had departed, Anne went through the things Bash had packed away for Gilbert - a few medical books, extra socks, a velvet bag she wouldn’t open - and realized that she wasn’t doing Bash a favor at all. He was doing her the favor - it would’ve been less expensive for him to just ship the things. Still, Anne added a few things of her own to the bag of things to give Gilbert, and shoved it underneath her bed.

Plopping back on her bed, Anne grinned at the ceiling. At this time in three days, she’d be with Gilbert. Would she survive until then?

Anne stepped off the train and onto the platform with stiff legs, but the relief in her muscles went almost entirely unnoticed when the sight of beautiful Toronto came into view. The mainland felt so different beneath her feet, as if she were a sailor taking her first steps onto solid land. Around her, travellers rustled and bounded by, talking of business, of family, of pleasure. With a surprised gasp, Anne noticed that beyond the train station, there were no rolling fields or orange-topped trees. In their place were tall buildings, one after another, after another, after another.

“First time in Toronto, eh?” a stranger said, noticing Anne stock still in place. She nodded in response, meeting the kind gaze of an elderly woman. The woman reminded her of Aunt Jo in that her spirit felt trustworthy and she was wearing one of the loveliest hats Anne had ever seen.

“Yes, by chance, could you point me in the direction of…” she snuck a glance at one of Gilbert’s old letters. “...North Sunset Street?”

“Certainly! Why, I grew up on that street. Just follow this main road for about a mile or so, and you’ll find Sunset on the right. A lovely row of brick houses. My mother used to put flowers in the window because the sunlight was always so bright.”

Anne smiled. A kindred spirit, after all.

“I think flowers are nature’s sweetest gift to us. I’ll put some in the window to honor her,” Anne promised. “Thank you so kindly for your help!”

As she traveled up the streets, Anne found her pace matched that of the city-goers around her, fast-paced and eager. How could she help it? There was only a mile distance between her and Gilbert, and the sooner she closed it, the sooner she’d pull him close to her and…and...do something terribly romantic. She’d figure it out when the time came. Tightening her grasp on her cases, she all but jogged through the winding crowds. Then, a street sign came into view with a familiar name and Anne’s heart jolted.

The woman had been right - North Sunset Street had some of the most lovely houses Anne had ever seen. The road was lined with old trees and was full of more greenery than she’d seen in the entire city. How Gilbert’s roommate had come to secure one, she couldn’t fathom, but she was glad Gilbert would spend his time somewhere that had hints of PEI’s loveliness. As she counted the house numbers - 290, 291, 292… - her stomach filled with an entire forest worth of butterflies.

293. There it was. Ivy rimmed and gold in the late afternoon light, Gilbert’s Toronto residence waited for her to burst in. Yet, instead of allowing herself in using the key she knew was under a ceramic dog on the windowsill, she knocked like the perfectly respectable lady she strove to be. Almost instantaneously, an unfamiliar voice boomed through the inside of the house.

“Did you lock yourself out again ? I keep telling you that I put a key underneath-” The door swung open. “Oh. You’re not Gilbert.”

Anne, stunned to be peering up at a man who was nearly an entire foot taller than her, merely offered a shy smile and shook her head.

“I take it you’re Ron?” she said cordially.

“Anne Shirley Cuthbert in the flesh,” he realized right back, eyeing her with an analytical gaze. “You’re... younger than I expected you to be.”

The grin on Anne’s face twitched and she held back the urge to shift awkwardly on her feet. How old did he expect her to be? After all, she was only about a year-and-a-half younger than Gilbert, old enough to be in college!

Ignoring the comment, Anne snuck a glance behind Ron’s shoulder.

“Is Gilbert in, by chance?”

Much to her disappointment, the man shook his head.

“He’s got a friday class that finishes at four o’clock. It’s probably just ended.” His eyes fell to the bags in her hand. “Are you staying?”

“Ah, well, I hoped to. Gilbert’s brother mentioned you both had a spare room that I could probably stay in to avoid the expense of a hotel. Only for the weekend. That is, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

Ron shrugged. “I don’t mind. Gil will probably insist on it with the way he moons over you. School is only a few blocks from here. Why don’t you leave your things here and I’ll show you where his usual haunt is?”

All at once, Anne’s butterflies were back with a passionate fury.

“I’d be ever so grateful!” she nearly exclaimed, her eagerness knocking Ron a few paces backwards. He grabbed his hat from the hook, plopped it on his head, and slid past her. As tenderly as if she were walking on glass, Anne followed behind, trying desperately not to make an utter fool of herself.

“Gilbert said you’re a college girl yourself?” Ron chatted amiably. A gust of wind brought a whiff of his expensive cologne to her nose.

“Yes, English and Teaching.”

“Ah, a reader then.”

“An avid one,” Anne confirmed. “But mostly I want to inspire students to believe in their own talents and grow to love learning just as much as I came to. A good education can help a person through anything. There is nothing so thrilling as watching those you care about succeed at the things they’re passionate about. Don’t you agree?”

Ron cocked a head in interest. If she had been attempting to put up a facade of decorum, that last statement had been the first hint of the free-spirited Anne he had heard so much about.

“You know, Anne, I believe you’re onto something,” he said. “At any rate, it matters little what I think. Your students will crave your approval, and I daresay they’ll have it.”

Anne beamed. Perhaps this Ron could be a kindred spirit, after all. She seemed to be finding them everywhere these days. Around them, the scenery grew taller and denser as they journeyed into the heart of the city. Ron rambled beside her about some strange fellow in one of his classes, but Anne could only half listen. Then, all of her senses turned to electricity when the sight of an imposing, majestic castle came into view.

“Welcome to the University of Toronto,” Ron interjected when he saw her eyes sparkling with amazement. “Gil should be around here somewhere.”

Yet, as Ron was leading her closer to the main hall’s regal entrance, Anne’s heart tugged her to glance behind her. She squinted to make out a few people sitting on and around a staircase near the west section of the building. Her feet moved on their own volition with slow uncertainty, but her heart had already confirmed what she desperately hoped was true. The closer she got, the more she recognized the outline of his features. His soft hair, his strong shoulders, his chin.

“Who’s that?” Anne heard from the group.

Suddenly, she stumbled to a halt, her breath stuck in her throat. She watched as his head turned toward her, and wondered if he could hear her heart beating from across the garden landscape. He leaned forward, as if not believing his eyes, straining to get a closer look.

Then, all at once, he jumped to his feet, stumbling forward a few steps in shock. A cry of elation tumbled from his lips, a matching one breaking Anne’s silence. His friends cried after him, but he was already bounding away. She didn’t make him run far, hoisting up her skirts to meet him halfway.

On the train ride here, Anne had imagined what she believed to be every possible reunion that could possibly happen when she finally saw Gilbert again. She imagined him opening up his arms and her leaping into them. She imagined him crushing his lips onto hers for a kiss that would heat her to her toes. What she didn’t imagine was running full speed to him, then stopping a mere breath away. Gilbert’s hands were frustratingly at his sides balled into fists. But his eyes...Anne beamed up into them. They were very bit as warm and earthy as she remembered them being, beautiful enough in their affection that she felt a shiver go down her back.

“You’re here!?” he said in disbelief. Much against her own will, Anne felt her eyes mist over just enough that she blinked into sunlight.

“Surprise!”

Gilbert let out a joyful laugh so loud that students on their way to class turned their heads to him. But he couldn’t find it in him to care. Not when Anne was before him, even more breathtaking than he remembered her being - which admittedly, was an impossible amount - smiling up at him with dimpled cheeks. If he didn’t do something soon, he was certain he’d combust on the spot.

Anne seemed to read his mind, and suddenly they were pulling each other in for a kiss. Flinging her arms around his neck, she pushed up onto her toes, sending Gilbert arching back against her fervor. Taking his cue, he lifted her up off the ground, and spun her around, laughing against her lips. The months of separation were suddenly forgotten, and Anne was content to do nothing except bury her face into his neck and breath in his familiar scent.

“But- but how?” he stammered, chuckling through Anne’s onslaught of cheek kisses. Her fingers were still locked behind his neck when she pulled back.

“I took the midnight train and slept most of the way. Ron brought me here.”

Gilbert sighed in relief, finally conceding to the blissful fact that this was not a dream. He dropped his forehead onto hers, and she nuzzled into his touch.

“I really missed you,” he murmured, grasp tightening at her waist. “We barely got any time together before I left.”

“I missed you just as much, but I’ll be here all weekend. That’s enough time for you to make good on all of the promises from your letters.” She blushed remembering some of the things he’d sworn he’d do when they reunited. They ranged from proper teas and dinners to embraces and experimental kisses where he’d learn the face was extra sensitive.

“I hope you’ll make good on yours too,” he replied with a raised brow.

“Count on it,” she assured. Her own promises entailed a detailed report of her romantic daydreams and ponderings from the months before they started their courtship. I know how my own pining went. I’m aching to know every bit of what you were thinking, he’d written once in a letter a few weeks back. The preview she’d granted in her response had been promising.

“Let me take you to dinner tonight. There’s so much I want to tell you.”

Anne nodded happily, not caring a might that they’d been giving each other comprehensive written reports of their daily life. She wanted to hear it all from him, watch the stories unfold on his face as he told them.

“But first,” he continued. “There are some people I want you to meet.”

-----

I hope you enjoyed! Here are all the people who requested to be tagged. If you’d like to add your name to the list or remove it, please let me know!

@pterparkcr @be-feminine-be-unique @firehaireddeamer @annabel-lee23 @beinmyheart @forcordelia @ladyofhousewaters @brookie-cookie3 @peculiarly-deactivated @mrs-shirley-cuthbert-blythe @lexfangirls @amoraeternusforyou @pastaismysignificantother @spellsandbells @instantknightartisanwagon @noctislightning @lonelyscreaming @lbhmoon @findurhappy @mynameisbluenotjane @sarahisatotalgeek @takemetoavonlea @shrillrule @doodlesfan @noctislightning @awaeforlife @neomikaha

#anne with an e #anne of green gables #shirbert #tessa writes #for the whole thing or easier reading #catch this on ao3 too!#i hope yall know that everyone who has told me they enjoy this story is truly so sweet #and you all have virtual bushels of wildflowers ♥

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pollylynn · 4 years

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Clepsydra—A Season 3/4 Caskett One-Shot

Title: Clepsydra WC: 2400

A/N: Post-Knockout (or technically, post–Rise conversation). There are very glancing references to Naked Heat and Heat Rises here.

How much time?

He knows better than to ask questions he does not want to know the answer to. Or once he knew better. He once was a man who knew better than to ask, to act, to want. He once was a man.

He doesn’t know what he is now. A being—a not quite person—caught between was and aching to be. Caught between now and I’ll call.

When?

He knew better than to ask that, at least. The man he once was knew better.

When?

There’s no profit in wondering. He wonders anyway, just beneath the surface, but on the surface, he works the case alongside the boys. He is at the precinct with the sun each morning—all three of them are. He takes the case home with him each night when even the long summer sun is a distant memory to the sky. He takes it all home.

He stares at the digital storyboard. He burns through legal pads without number, trying to piece together theories that can give them any kind of lead, any course of action at all.

He feels hamstrung in all of it. Ryan and Esposito are diligent. They are every bit as determined and fired up as he is. But the ideas that should flow fast and furious from his mind will barely come at all. He feels as if he’s standing on one leg with his right hand tied behind his back, half blindfolded. Without her, he feels like he’s missing half himself.

How much time?

They are turning in circles before long. They are doubling back, checking and rechecking. They are coming up on nowhere quickly—the point at which it’s all ritual. They are abruptly rear-ended straight into it by the arrival of Captain Gates, whose second official act is to kick him to the curb. Her first is to shut down the investigation entirely. A stalled investigation, a waste of resources, inappropriate to begin with.

It doesn’t stop them, of course—not the three of them. He works the digital board—the only board, now—all day at home. He rends lined yellow pages in frustration, then dives for the shredded remains in the wire basket under his desk when he’s suddenly convinced he was on to something this time.

The boys come straight to the loft after work. They come with sleeves rolled up, bearing pizza and beer. They stay until the wee hours, then creep home for barely detectable amounts of sleep. They work—the three of them—but there’s nothing new. There’s been nothing new for . . .

How much time?

He won’t let himself count the days, the weeks. He wills his mind away from the reality that they have moved into months—plural—long since. He wills his mind away from the merciless, ultimate truth. But it’s there, just beneath the surface.

On the surface, he tears the book apart. He reduces it to its component phonemes, and Gina is irate. He assumes Gina is irate from the triple-digit number of voicemails that have piled up. He doesn’t speak to her, of course. He doesn’t speak to anyone, really. His mother and Alexis are away.

He’d sent them away at the very outset—We don’t know, we don’t know. I need to know you are safe. Please. He’d sent them away, and at this point, they are staying away. He knows, distantly, that they are staying, because the silence stretches out when he calls, when they call and he notices that it’s safe to pick up. He doesn’t speak to anyone, really.

The book is easy. It’s surprisingly easy once he starts knitting it together again. There’s Montrose to create. He’s come up before, in passing, but Nikki’s Captain needs to come to life in this one, and he does—his features, his mannerisms, his voice. They find their way on to the page like the lemon juice secret messages he used to leave for himself as a kid.

He’d write them out and tuck them in winter coat pockets in summer, hoping to find them at some much later date, hoping he’d forget and rediscover with the heat of a lightbulb or a match from the kitchen drawer. He’d tuck them away, hoping for some pleasant summer surprise in the grey of December.

It never happened. He was too impatient, his memory too perfect or his technique too sloppy. But that’s what happens now. Writing Charles Montrose—remembering his friend and mentor—is a like discovering a treasure trove of lemon juice secret messages.

There’s his care for Nikki. There is his mentorship and his love for her. And there are his failings. There are the terrible ghosts that haunt the man, but even writing that is easy, because there is conflict. There is a struggle, and there are warning signs. There is a a story—a tragedy, yes, and his jaw, his spine, his whole body aches when he writes the man’s death—but there on the page is a fucking story that makes sense. It’s easy, compared to the real world, and one night—one moment on a well-honed knife blade between night and morning—he looks up, and he is finished.

The book, unwritten and written again, is finished.

He closes the last chapter file just as Nikki opens a book and settles in at Rook’s bedside. He checks the manuscript folder and sees the chapters neatly, chronologically, arranged.

He’s written from beginning to end—something he never does. He’s done a handful of factual sanity checks, but he has not looked back in any meaningful way. Each chapter’s Last Opened date matches its Date Modified exactly, and each of those maps on to the date he has sent each one off for editing—for proof of life—Chapter X, Draft. And now he is simply done. He .zips the folder and sends it to Black Pawn as an attachment, all at once—no revisions, no worrying each sentence in each chapter to death. No revisions, and no looking back.

He dials Gina’s number, heedless of the time.

“It’s done,” he says flatly. He hangs up before she’s finished with her sleep-heavy Hello.

He sleeps, then. It’s not the first time since Roy Montgomery’s funeral—not the first time since the shooting. The demands of his body aren’t kind enough to have propped him up all that time. He has slept in ten thousand brief snatches and awoken with a start every time. He has awoken with the sharp, aching certainty that they days, the weeks, the months have all been an awful nightmare.

How much time?

But now, he sleeps straight through most of the day. His phone wakes him. His mother, Alexis, he registers as he fumbles the thing on. His daughter is clipped, cool, distant. His mother oscillates between high sarcasm and cautious hope that sleep—the real sleep she hears in his unguarded voice—will have done him some good at last.

The doorbell buzzes. He stumbles through the office. Alexis comes back to the phone, softened by two degrees, no more. She says she loves him. She just worries about him. He says the same and promises he won’t forget to call tomorrow.

He tugs open the door on the third or fourth try. He’s expecting Ryan and Esposito. Except he’s not expecting Ryan and Esposito. He remembers this as he blearily takes in the bike messenger holding a box of manuscript paper like a pizza. He remembers that Ryan and Esposito aren’t coming quite every day any more, because there’s no real need. Because they’re nowhere. Some of the good the sleep has done him ebbs away at the thought.

He signs for the box and tips the messenger. He slices through the tape holding the cardboard cover on and sees the angry post-it first. Gina’s handwriting, her rage rising up from every stroke of the pen. Edits. Acknowledgments. Not done.

He tosses the post-it aside, and wants to weep. He sits down hard on the stairs with the manuscript in its box between his feet, and he realizes that he hasn’t.

He recalls, for reasons a dime store shrink could fathom, her dry eyes and the absolute clarity of her words after the hangar—No one outside this immediate family. He recalls the tears on Ryan’s cheeks, glinting in even the dim light. But he has no memory of his own state of being. He can see himself there among them. He can describe his position in the room, where his hands came to rest, the angle of his head. He can say for certain that he did not weep for Roy Montgomery. He has not wept for him.

He has not wept for her. Not really, though the last tears he can remember shedding were those that fell on to her body as her shockingly warm blood pumped out of her chest and spilled over the ornate brass buttons of her dress uniform.

He has not wept for the terrible, inevitable conclusion he has put off for days, weeks, months, —plural. He has staved it off with the case, with the book, with this facsimile of a life he has been living, but now it seems he has reached the end, and he wants to weep.

He reaches between his feet instead. He grabs the stack of pages that make up the first chapter by expert feel. He wanders, back to the office and retrieves his dark blue editing pencil.

He works quickly, slapping one chapter face down and retrieving the next. Once again, it’s easy. He’s critical of the fact that Montrose feels somewhat abruptly introduced—his life requires more exposition than a third book should have—but there’s no remedy for that, other than what he’s managed to do in rendering things as impressionistically as possible.

He paces, pages and pencil in hand. He hunches over the desk. He slouches in the leather chair. He moves through the manuscript with focus that cannot be healthy, but what about this is? What about the man he once was is anything like healthy.

It’s an odd hour again when he finishes—when he decides he’s finished. He sets his worn-down blue pencil aside five or six pages before the end of the last chapter. That’s as it should be, as it needs to be, as it will stay. Nikki opens the book at Rook’s hospital bedside.

It’s morning, he thinks, though the hour on his watch dial is ambiguous and there’s a thick cloud cover over the city. The street below his glass office wall probably says morning. He feels heavy in the world. Tired, yes, but also heavy, as though he might go to the floor in an all at once heap any second.

He should go to bed. He should try for sleep, or rest, or . . . physical stillness, at least but the final pages draw him back. He sinks into his desk chair. He frames the pages with his hands and he reads. The whole of it is clear to him as the words reach inside him. He turns the final page and he sees the book for what it is—a love letter to her.

That’s what Paula called Heat Wave. It wasn’t. Heat Wave was . . . attempted seduction mashed together with a note passed all the way around a sixth grade classroom. It was the work of a boy pulling the pigtails of the girl he liked, as Beckett herself had so aptly put it. As Kate had so aptly put it.

This—these pages stacked high beside him, ending on a wounded, aching note—is a love letter. It is an elegy for a man they both loved, and it is the hell that they have rained down on one another, all this last year. It is the secrets she has shared with him and him alone, and it is his heart laid bare to her.

It is the offering she does not want.

How much time? The rest of forever. That is in the inescapable truth he has staved off all these days, weeks, months, and he has come to the end of it. Almost.

There is a page after the last—happy to read to him endlessly and then another page. It’s blank save for a single word, once again, in Gina’s furious handwriting. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS in all caps this time. His head drops to his hands. He presses his palms against his eyes and feels the weight of what he dashed off last year. The few grudging words of thanks to Beckett herself, and the sly jab of the knife—his thanks to Gina for staying on top of me. He is, amidst the wash of everything else, ashamed of that. He is sorry for it and baffled by the instinct that led him into such a cheap, pointless shot.

He sits with everything that has transpired over the last year. He knows there is anger awaiting him in the middle distance. He knows he will live in the days, the weeks, the months to come with the kind of fury born of absolute despair. And still, in this moment, with his head bowed over the thing he has unmade and made new, he is baffled by the instinct to cause her pain.

So, he decides, he won’t. He takes up his worn-down blue pencil. He scrawls in the space below Gina’s single, angry word, just her name at first, Detective Kate Beckett. Grief travels strangely down his arms at the sight of the letters there. It settles between the bones of his wrists, sending out aching pulses of longing.

He knows, in the part of himself that his not yet utterly destroyed, that he has to go on. He knows that it’s important he sketches the broad outline of what he means to say, right here and right now, but it seems impossible with tendrils of sorrow winding through his hands.

The answer, when it comes a long moment later, is one she has given him—an unhesitating, apt assertion of something true. He’s meant to steal it from her all along. He steals it now and gives it back. Detective Kate Beckett, he writes again, and just below it, how to make sense of songs. A/N: Not really sure where this came from. Someone on AO3 left a really nice comment on “Kindness Yet,” and for some reason that just put me in a Season 3/4 state of mind. And I’ve always been fascinated by the meta of the books. Also, I’m just not going to bed at all these days, because my head just won't fucking shut up.

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ohnojustimagine · 5 years

Text

Dusk Till Dawn, part 2

Pac/Reader; smut and angst leading into fluff (ish), 9350 words.

You can find part 1 here and you probably would need to read that first as this follows directly on from it.

The sun is just beginning to rise as you make your way home. Your torn, ruined wedding dress barely covers you, threatening to fall off your shoulders at any moment as you walk. One of the servants at the castle took pity on you and gave you an old blanket to drape around yourself so as to preserve what little of your modesty is left and you clutch the two ends of it tight over your chest.

The ground is cold in the early morning, rough on your bare feet, but at least it is a Sunday and so there is as yet no one about to witness your barely decent state. But everyone in the town will soon be aware of what has happened, you realize with a sinking heart. You cannot remember the last time a new bride was not almost immediately dismissed from the castle after being summoned on her wedding night, the King's right generally only a mere formality, something that is rarely acted upon.

That you did not return so swiftly but were in fact gone for the entire night will tell the petty gossips all they need to know. You will be judged, likely shamed, but there is nothing that can be done about it, you tell yourself resignedly. Perhaps you should feel ashamed, you think, blushing to remember some of the acts you so eagerly partook in, but there is a strange distance to your recollections. Your lips might still throb from ardent kisses and your sex ache with pleasure, but the past night already feels as if it was not quite real, something so removed from your ordinary life that you are not so certain you will ever be able to truly believe it actually happened.

You quietly open the door of your new marital home, entering, and it seems not as large as you recall; one room that is smaller than the King's entire bedchamber, but it is clean and neat and warm, the remains of good fire glowing softly in the grate.

You see that your husband is asleep, his snores and snuffling breaths loud from the bed in the corner, and so you stoke up the fire, adding a few pieces of wood, watching as the flames flare brightly, crackling as they burn. There is a pot of water sitting on the hearth, heating, and you take off what is left of your dress, folding it carefully.

Your mother spent hours sewing it, and you remember how her eyes shone at you when you first tried it on. "You're so beautiful," she'd told you. "Your husband will be so proud to take you as his wife."

And though you became his wife, it was not your husband who took you. It was the King, and the only thing you can be certain of is that he has changed you, opened both your mind and your body to desires you had not known existed within you, appetites that you did not ever suspect you were capable of feeling, let alone indulging.

But you dismiss such thoughts, finding a cloth and quickly washing your body down with the warmed water, dressing yourself in your every day working clothes, and when you are done, you sit at the table, waiting, staring into the fire.

Your husband finally stirs, sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes at he looks at you. He does not speak as he rises, instead walking over to you and simply resting one hand on your shoulder, bending to kiss the top of your head. You reach up to take his hand, and he says, softly, "Are you all right?"

"Yes," you say, though you are not so very sure it is the truth.

"Good," he replies, and it seems that is the last of it, because your life goes on.

It is not the same as before, of course, as you are a married woman now, having left your childhood home to make a household of your own with your new husband. His family have a plot of land just outside the village where they grow vegetables and keep chickens and pigs, selling the produce at the weekly market in the town square, and you are looking forward to working with them, wanting to remain busy, if only to stop your mind from wandering to places you would prefer it did not go.

And so the next day, as the week starts in earnest, you and your husband make your way there to work. He takes your hand in his as you walk, blushing a little and staring straight ahead of him, and you smile to yourself, because though last night he did nothing but sleep beside you, you are confident that the true intimacy of your married life will soon begin.

His parents are waiting for you, already working, each with a hoe in hand, hilling up the soil around a row of beans.

They stop as the two of you approach, and though they greet your husband warmly, they do not seem so happy to see you, the contrast to their smiling faces on your wedding day stark enough that a swift chill runs through you, settling tense in the pit of your stomach. Your new father-in-law does not address you at all, refusing to even meet your gaze, and your mother-in-law only looks you up and down with a sneer and a sigh, muttering under her breath about 'used goods.'

You blush, humiliated, staring down at the ground. And it is only made worse by the fact that you have known them since you were just a child, and they have never, until now, been anything but kind to you, encouraging their son's courtship and seeming to approve of the match between the two of you. But it would appear that their attitude towards you has now changed, and you cannot pretend you do not know why.

Your husband looks back and forth between his mother and yourself, then gently suggests that you could perhaps begin by cleaning out the chicken coops and collecting the eggs ready for market day tomorrow. You nod, and wander off in the direction he points you, feeling your mother-in-law's eyes at your back, her scorn so palpable it is like something burning on your skin, a mark that is visible to all.

But the day passes, spent mostly in solitude for you, even eating your noon meal on your own, but you do not complain. You would rather be alone than be subjected to such judgment, and while you know what happened to you was not something you freely chose, you cannot help but feel guilty about how you conducted yourself while in the King's presence.

Dusk is falling by the time your work is deemed done, and you walk back through the village with your husband, yet this time, he does not take your hand. He seems deep in thought, and is silent even as you enter your home. You both wash your hands and faces, scrubbing off the worst of the day's dirt, and you ladle out two bowls of the stew you prepared early this morning and left simmering over the fire while you were gone.

"Market day tomorrow," you say, trying to make conversation, lighten the heaviness that seems to hang weighted in the air between you. But he only nods in reply, seeming to barely hear you, so you do not speak again, finishing your food as the darkness of the night begins to close in. You light one of the candles that sits in its holder on the table, gathering up the bowls and spoons, setting them to soak in water overnight.

There is a tightness in your chest, a tension that you cannot seem to shake off, but you tell yourself that it is nothing.

Your husband takes off his working clothes, stripping down to his undergarments and climbing into the bed with a sigh. He lies on his side, facing away from you as you change into your nightgown. It is made of white linen with a simple lace edge, and is really is too fine for daily use, made as it was for your wedding night, but seeing as it never fulfilled that intended purpose, you have decided to wear it regardless, hoping that it will please your husband to see you in it. But he does not even look at you as you blow out the candle and slip into bed beside him.

You can hear him breathing next to you, inhalations that are strangely rapid and deep, and then, without warning, he is suddenly on top of you. You let out a small, surprised gasp, and he kisses you, his tongue fat and limp in your mouth as he reaches down to push your nightgown out of the way. And you are not nearly ready, but it does not hurt too badly as he enters you, thrusting into you rapidly just a few times before his body stiffens, trembling, and he lets out a brief, anguished-sounding cry.

And then he grunts slightly, as if content with this conclusion, and rolls off you. Within seconds you hear him snoring, and you do not move, lying there, shocked, unable to fathom what you have just experienced. Because while you were not expecting your husband to take as much time over things or be as skilled as the King, you were not expecting... that. Perhaps, you console yourself, he was simply nervous, ill-prepared for your first time together. You have heard talk that men who are not practised in the physicalities of married life can be too hurried about things, overexcited as they are with the newness of it all, and so you can only conclude that you will need to be patient with him, allow him to get used to the act.

You feel strangely restless, uneasy and so very keenly unsatisfied, but eventually you drift off into sleep. And yet it feels like you have barely entered slumber before you are awakened, even earlier than usual, needing to make your preparations for market day.

You work with your husband and his parents to set up their stall, piling it high with vegetables and eggs and newly-cured bacon, and when all is in readiness, your mother-in-law looks at you. "I'm sure you can manage on your own, my dear," she says, smiling, but there is no warmth in her eyes. "We will go back to work."

"I can stay with her," your husband offers, and you are grateful for his kindness, but your mother-in-law's response is both immediate and sharp.

"No," she orders, the word barked out harshly. "She is better left alone."

"I am all right," you tell your husband, and he nods. He will not defend you, you know that, and perhaps it is better this way. The three of them do not bid you good bye as they take their leave, but you try not to let it bother you. And soon you are busy enough, people beginning to file into the market, making their purchases for the week.

You are standing idle, waiting for your next customer when two younger men approach the stall, and though you do not know their names, their faces are vaguely familiar to you as locals. They are nudging each other, trying to contain their laughter as they stare at you, wide-eyed. "It's her," you hear one of them whisper.

But you ignore their childishness, and say, "May I help you?"

"You may," the other one says, affecting an accent that you assume is supposed to be humorously reminiscent of the nobility, though you find no jest in it. "I was wondering," he goes on, "if I might ask you a question?"

"Yes," you reply, warily, because you are certain he is not interested in the price of the eggs or the quality of potatoes you're offering for sale.

You can see how desperately he is trying not to laugh as he asks, "Is the King's prick as big as they say?" And as soon as the words are out, both he and his companion collapse into helpless giggles.

Your face burns bright with humiliation, and you look away, wishing you could sink into the earth and disappear, but then you hear two yelps of pain, and when you look up, it is your cousin, Gwen, who has cuffed both boys none-too-gently about the ears. "Find yourself someone else to bother," she scolds them, sending them on their way, and you sigh in relief to see her.

When they are gone, she smiles at you, but there is concern in her eyes. "I heard about..." she begins, but then stops. "After the wedding," she says.

"I'm sure everyone has heard by now," you say, bitter, and she nods, understanding.

"Don't listen to them," she tells you. "It's just the tradition, people know it's the way of things." And you want to believe her, wishing with all your heart it could be so simple. "Was it..." she asks, lowering her voice. "Was it so very bad?"

You shrug, giving her a wan smile, as you cannot think how to answer such a question. She does not reply, simply laying a consoling hand on your arm, squeezing lightly, and you are well aware what she is thinking, what you are allowing her to assume. You feel as if you are somehow betraying the King by not correcting her, trying to explain what actually occurred, but, if you are honest, you are not so very sure you could explain it.

So you say nothing.

"Best to put it behind you," Gwen says, firm but sympathetic. "Move on."

Other customers approach the stall, and she waves a quick farewell, walking away with a sad smile. You sigh to yourself, but you consciously put on a falsely bright face, refocusing your energies. And perhaps Gwen may have misunderstood what happened to you during your night with the King, but she is right in that you do need to put it behind you, and you are determined to do so.

That evening in bed your husband again rolls on top of you and while this time he lasts slightly longer, it is still over in a startlingly brief amount of time. You lie awake afterwards, staring up into the rafters of the cottage, wondering how you ever thought you could be satisfied with such a life.

Because each day and each night is the same: you work alone, separate from the others, you come home and eat, you go to bed and your husband takes what you can only imagine is his meagre pleasure. Thus, you realize, it is becoming clear that if anything is to improve, it will be up to you to take the initiative. So the next night, as your husband is about to begin, you turn to him.

"Wait," you say, and he looks at you with some confusion. "Can we not..." you ask, shyly. "Can we not take a little more time about it?" He stares at you, as if not understanding, watching you in apparent puzzlement as you pull the bed coverings back enough to expose him, then reach into his underclothes, taking his manhood tentatively in your hand. It feels hot under your palm, and he gasps as you stroke it gently, your fingers loose around the shaft of it. For a moment you think he is going to finish right then and there, but you let him go, and he seems to stop himself. You look at him, hopeful, and lower your head, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of his member, lips barely touching it. He stares down at you, his expression one of horror rather than the delight you expected, and pushes you from him with enough violence that you are barely able to keep your balance, crawling backwards on the bed away from him, suddenly afraid.

"That is what whores do," he spits out, abhorrence written plain over his features, as if what you have just done is so repellent it cannot be borne. "Not good women."

And you don't understand, stammering, "I... I'm sorry, I only wanted to please you."

"That is not how a decent wife pleases her husband."

"I am sorry," you repeat, "I did not know, I promise I will not do it again if it is not right."

His face changes, hardening into anger, and your heart sinks with dread at the sight. "Did you perform such acts on the King?" he asks.

You hesitate, then reply, "No," the lie unconvincing even to yourself.

"You did, didn't you?" your husband says, bitterness in his voice. "I..." He shakes his head. "I wanted to believe that you had no choice, that you were forced. But I understand now, that you were corrupted, that you... that you let yourself be corrupted by him."

"It was not like that," you plead, the beginnings of tears prickling sharp in your eyes. "I am sorry," you say again. "Please."

But it seems your husband is set in his opinion, not to be swayed, and he gets out of bed, dressing himself, every movement tense, betraying his fury. "I will not stand for it," he says, pointing his finger at you, and you can only pray he does not see fit to give you a beating for your foolishness. "I will not stand to be disrespected in my own house by my own wife."

He slams the door of the cottage behind him as he leaves, and you want to cry, but you know there is no point, that it would only be self-indulgence and so you bite down on the feeling, swallowing the sob that threatens to well up in your throat, willing your weakness away. This is your life now, and you must accept it, whatever that costs you. You climb back under the covers of the bed, curled up on your side, and for the first time since that fateful night, you allow your thoughts to wander unrestrained, thinking of the King, of how he looked at you, how he touched you.

You had never before experienced what it was to be truly desired by a man, and now, you are quite certain, you will never experience it again. And yet still, the memories stir fresh longings inside you, your body suddenly alive with yearning, an insistent pulse between your thighs as wetness begins to gather there. And though you blush at your own wanton sinfulness, you do not stop yourself as your hand slips under your nightgown, your fingers swiftly finding the place that you know will bring you satisfaction.

You burn with shame to hear yourself, the noises you are making, crude sounds of pleasure as the feeling of it reaches a peak inside you, and it is the King you think of as you tremble through your completion; his face scowling and cruel, softening into a reluctant, guarded tenderness.

You turn over with a sigh, falling into a troubled sleep.

When your husband returns in the morning, he does not speak to you, and you remain silent, staying out of his way, making yourself as small and unobtrusive as you can, not wishing to provoke him. You are hoping his anger will subside at least somewhat, given time, but it seems what you have done is unforgivable to him, because from then on he begins to spend his evenings at the tavern, not returning home until late, the stench of ale invariably on his breath. But he never touches you, not ever, no matter how drunk he is, lying every night unmoving in the bed beside you, his body turned away.

Sometimes, while you are alone, waiting for him to come home, you give in to temptation and satisfy yourself, but the feeling it brings you is empty, hollow.

Weeks pass, and you settle into a kind of dull and aching numbness, resigned to the fact that this is your fate. There are times you would like to make yourself wish that you had never been chosen by the King, had been merely dismissed like so many other brides, but you cannot ever manage to regret that night, whatever trouble it has brought to you.

But then, one afternoon, you are busy in the fields, as your husband and his parents are digging over one of the the vegetable plots, ready for new plantings, and you are walking back and forth with a hand cart laden heavy with dirty straw from the pigs' sty. You unload the cart next to where they are working, struggling to upend it enough that it will empty, and no one speaks to you, but you are so accustomed to silence by now that you barely notice, trudging back to the muck heap next to the sty, mud slippery under your feet with each step. You pick up your pitchfork, ready to refill the cart, your back aching with the labor of it, but then someone calls out your name.

You look up in puzzlement, wiping the sweat from your brow with a filthy hand. There are two royal guards standing there with your mother-in-law and your chest is suddenly tight, you breath caught somewhere in your throat, though whether that is caused by delight or dread you could not say.

"It seems you are being summoned again, my dear," she informs you in a poisonous tone. "I suppose you must have impressed his Majesty with your talents last time."

"I..." you start, hesitating as you glance over at your husband, who only shrugs, turning back to his work. It breaks you inside to know that you mean so little to him, that he does not even care that another man wants to make use of you. "Are... are you certain?" you ask the guards. "The King asked for me?"

"By name," one replies confidently. "You are to come with us."

"Now," says the other, beckoning to you impatiently.

You look down at your dress, covered with mud, and you have no doubt that you must reek of sweat and the worst of the pig sty. "Please allow me to change my clothes," you tell them. "I cannot appear before the King in this state."

"Sorry," the first guard says. "His majesty commanded you be brought to him immediately, without the smallest delay."

"Please," you repeat, "I am sure the King would not wish for me to be presented to him like this."

The guards roll their eyes, and one strides over to you, grabbing your arm, pulling you with him roughly, almost dragging you along until you fall into step with him, walking quickly. They flank you, either side, and you glance back over your shoulder to see that everyone has seemingly calmly returned to their work, not sparing even a look at your retreating form.

Which is no more than you would expect, and so you try to brush some of the mud off your dress as you walk, using your sleeve to scrub off your face as best you can. You are at least grateful that being on the outskirts of town means that you are not being paraded through the main streets for everyone to see you taken back to the castle, but there are people enough to stare knowingly at you as you are marched along.

Tension builds cold in the pit of your stomach as the guards lead you up the staircase that you recall leads to the King's private chamber, because you are certain he will not be pleased by your appearance.

They knock at the door, opening it as the King's voice calls out, "Enter," and you are pushed into the room, holding your breath. The King is facing away from you, wearing dark-colored breeches and riding boots, still adorned with spurs, his white shirt untucked so that it hangs off his broad shoulders, dark hair tumbling in loose, untidy curls down his back.

He turns, a goblet of what you assume is wine raised to his mouth, but when he sees you, he lowers it, lip curling up in obvious disgust. "Good god," he says, looking you up and down.

"I am so very sorry, Majesty," you say quickly, stumbling over the words in your hurry to apologize. "I was working in the fields and your men would not permit me to change before bringing me here, I know that to appear before you in this manner is disrespect of the highest order."

The King does not reply to you, but he glares silently at the guards, raising his eyebrows at them, as if demanding explanation.

They look back and forth between each other, hesitant, and one says, "Your majesty told us it was urgent, that we should bring her with all haste."

"I suppose I did." The King rubs his forehead, seemingly resigned, and then waves at the guards, dismissing them. "Go," he tells them. "And have someone bring up hot water for washing without delay."

They both nod curtly, standing to attention before leaving the room, closing the door behind them, and the King turns his focus back to you. He stares at you for perhaps a full minute, and you keep your gaze lowered, your eyes on the floor, for if you have to see the utter disdain in his expression you are sure you will begin to cry.

"You smell of shit," he says, with a sniff.

"I am sorry, majesty," you say, again, looking at him, pleading. "I was cleaning out the pig sty and..."

He holds up one hand, saying, "Please, spare me the gruesome details of it." He sighs. "I could have any woman in the kingdom and yet it seems I desire..." He gestures at you, disgust written plain even in the movement of his fingers through the air. "This." He seats himself, gulping down a mouthful of wine and looking at you with an undisguised revulsion that is so very similar to the way your husband regards you that you have to bite your lip in an effort to quell the sobs that are burning in your throat.

"At least take off your clothes," he tells you, and you hurriedly obey, carefully folding your dress so no dried mud spills onto the fine rug that covers the floor. You look around, unsure where to place it, and the King says, "Put it all by the door. I will have them taken and washed."

"You do not need to do so, majesty, I can..."

"I would ask you not to argue with me, child," he interrupts, a warning in his voice.

"Sorry," you reply, nodding in deference.

"And stop apologizing," he snaps. "It is most tiresome."

You do not say anything, swallowing the urge to say 'sorry' yet again and hurriedly removing the rest of your clothes. You set them in a neat pile by the door of the room as instructed, then return to your previous position, standing in front of the King, uncertain if he wishes for you to do anything other than wait. But for now, at least, he seems content to simply gaze upon your naked form, and while his expression is not exactly one of unbridled lust, he no longer seems quite so revolted by your appearance.

"Well," he muses, "that's somewhat better. At least you are now pleasing to the eye, if not the other senses."

He takes a swig of his wine, and then leans down, easing off his boots, casting them aside carelessly and then sitting back with an exhaled breath. "And so how is married life?" he asks you.

You are not sure how to answer that without being untruthful, so you settle on evasive. "It is... quite well," you say.

"Quite well," he replies, with the hint of a smirk, as if he guesses that you are deliberately avoiding his question, but before he can say more, there is a knock at the door. "Enter," he says in a commanding tone, not taking his eyes off you.

Two serving women walk in, one young, one older, carrying a low wooden tub of water between them, steam rising visibly off the surface of it. The younger woman stares openly at you, wide-eyed and curious, but the older one merely looks you up and down with a cynical, knowing gaze, and though you do not cover yourself, you shrink back into your body a little in response, your shoulders instinctively hunching as you feel her judgment.

They place the water in front of the fire, and the older woman lays out some generous lengths of towelling and a piece of soap on a nearby table. "Anything else you require, your majesty?" she asks, and the King points at your clothes by the door.

"Take those," he tells her. "Have them washed."

She nods, and you can see her irritation in the line of her mouth, the set of her jaw, and you want desperately to tell her that you know your station, that you should not be being waited on by her or indeed by anyone in the castle, but you are keenly aware that will not please the King, so you bite your tongue, watching pained as she gathers up your things, holding them slightly away from herself as if in disgust.

She and her companion take their leave in silence, closing the door behind them, and you let out a breath.

"Well then," the King says expectantly, nodding towards the water, and you hurry to obey his implied command, stepping into the tub. It is pleasantly hot, the level of water reaching only to just below your knees, and so you assume you are to remain standing as you bathe. Thus you take up the soap and one of the shorter pieces of towelling, dipping them both in the water, and quickly as you can begin to clean yourself off, fearful of making the King wait any longer than necessary.

But almost as soon as you have begun, you hear him emit a strained sigh of obvious irritation, and you stop, looking up at him, confused as to what you could possibly doing wrong now. "For god's sake, woman," he exclaims, exasperated, "you are not scrubbing down a butchered pig. If I have to watch you bathe can you not at least make a show of it for me?"

"Oh," you murmur, because that did not occur to you, used as you are to washing for only practical reasons, rushing when tired at the end of a working day. You are not entirely sure what he is asking of you, uncertain as to what a show of bathing should be, but you hold one shakingly hesitant arm out in front of you, running the soap up it slowly, rubbing gently back and forth over your skin, glancing over at him to gauge his reaction.

"That is more like it," he says, approvingly, and you exhale in relief, continuing.

And it's strange, you muse as you go on, so very strange to be taking your time over something as simple and every day as washing yourself, but to your surprise, you find yourself enjoying it, finally able to relax just a little. The fire is hot at your back, the water warm as it sluices over your body, dripping down across your breasts, your stomach. You lather the soap on your skin, the feel of it soft and creamy, far more luxurious than the rough lump of bitter-smelling soap you use at home. This is scented with lavender, and you close your eyes, inhaling the sweetness, running your hands over your body, unhurried and sensuously indulgent.

For a minute you forget where you are, but then you open your eyes, looking over at the King, blushing at your own lack of modesty, but he does not seem to mind. He still holds his goblet of wine in one hand, but the other is resting on his thigh, near to his manhood, and there is an intentness to his gaze, a focus that tells you his desire is growing.

You lower your eyes as you wash between your legs, too embarrassed to linger over that particular place, especially when you can feel the beginnings of arousal there, wet and full, and when you glance back up at the King, he is smirking slightly, seemingly amused by your sudden awkwardness.

He does not comment, but instead rises to his feet, setting down his wine, pulling his shirt off, over his head, and you try not to stare at his upper body, which seems to be even more remarkable than you remember, with its carved-out muscles and pale, smooth skin, but you do not have time to reflect upon him, as he walks around to stand behind you. He holds out his hand, palm up, next to you, and for a moment you do not understand, but then you realize, and hand him the soap.

You step back so that you are at the edge of the tub, closer to him, listening to the slick sounds of him lathering up the soap, anticipation quivering inside you like something alive, threatening to spill over as you wait for him.

But then he touches you, and you breathe in, the sound of it somewhere between a gasp and a sigh, his hands gentle but assured as he smooths soap over your back, drawing slow circles, as if exploring, mapping your skin. There is a tensed knot of muscle above one of your shoulder blades, still sore from your afternoon's work of shovelling out the pig sty (though you can barely believe that that was only a short while ago, distant as it now seems) and he finds it quickly, unprompted, unerring. He makes a small noise of displeasure at the feel of it, pressing one thumb into the tightness, and you cannot stop yourself from moaning quietly as the muscle releases.

He hums to himself, briefly, as if satisfied by his work, and then bends, picking up one of the cloths, wetting it and carefully washing the suds off your back. Water drips down your spine, over your buttocks, and you can hear him behind you, breathing.

You swallow, nervous, heart beating faster as he leans in to kiss the nape of your neck, his lips tender yet ardent, the promise of something more hanging thick in the air. "I would have you know that I have thought of you," he murmurs. "Many times, since our night together." He kisses you again, then says, "I do tend to find women quite forgettable, but you..."

He does not finish, but you can feel him closer behind you, his hands reaching around you and sliding up over your stomach, under your breasts, lifting the weight of them. His thumbs rub at your nipples, pressing against them, and you feel your flesh harden and peak under his touch, responding to him, unashamed and needful.

"Have you thought of me?" he asks, voice catching so very slightly that you barely hear it. "Since we parted?"

"Yes, majesty," you reply, your face reddening to recall exactly how much you have thought of him, and under what particular circumstances some of those thoughts have occurred.

"Ah," he says, the sound of it low, as if that pleases him, and he presses one last kiss to your neck before shifting away from you. "Dry yourself," he orders, and you nod, stepping out of the tub, careful to keep your balance.

You take up the largest piece of towelling, dabbing the moisture from your skin, and the sudden impatience in his expression tells you that he would prefer you do not linger over this particular part of the process, and so you try to be graceful with it even as you hurry.

He watches, standing there, waiting for you, and when you are finished, you turn to face him. He is still for a minute, but then he moves forward, his hands coming to rest on your waist. You hold your breath as he kisses you, mouth against yours, soft, his lips closed yet full.

He pulls back, looking at you, his eyes dark with a want so blatant you feel it. And you know it is not right, that you should allow him to take the lead, but you cannot stop yourself, your own need an insistent throb inside you, and so this time it is you who closes the space between you. You breathe against him, lick his mouth, and when he opens to you, your tongue slides against his, tangling, gently at first, as if exploring, relearning one another, but then intensifying as he demands more and you respond in kind.

"Yes," he whispers, pulling back just enough to speak. "You are hungry for it, are you not?"

You cannot bring yourself to reply, and he laughs at you, the sound of it something akin to a growl, deep and so very masculine that you feel yourself tremble, weak in the face of it, of your own desire.

"I did appreciate the blushing little virgin last time, but I think perhaps I like this more," he muses, and heat pulses inside you. Still, you wait, knowing your place, trying to contain your restlessness as he seems to consider his next action, but then he takes your hand, lifting it gallantly, leading you over to the bed. He helps you up onto it, and you lie back without being asked, sinking into the thickly-laid coverings of fur and silk, the sensation of it briefly returning your mind to the first time you laid here, so fearful and tensed.

It is strange to realize how little time has passed since that night and yet how much you have changed, now willingly allowing the King to part your legs, baring yourself to him as he kneels between your thighs. He stares at your body, eyes trailing over every inch of you as he slowly rubs himself through his breeches, his gaze so arrogantly possessive that it is as if it burns on your skin.

He leans down, hands firm and assured as he spreads you even wider, his face so near to your sex that you can feel his breath, warm against your own wet heat, and you should be blushing or protesting or resisting, not letting this happen without the slightest modesty or shame, not waiting eagerly, your heart racing, barely daring to imagine what he is about to do.

You swallow, nervous, as you feel him draw closer, and then, at last, his mouth is on you, the first touch of it strangely tender and unexpectedly, almost shockingly intimate. He kisses you, lips pressed against you as his tongue snakes out to draw gently through your folds, beginning to lap at you; softly at first, but then with an increasing vigor, concentrating on that small nub that you yourself have previously focused on as the source of your pleasure.

You bite down on the sounds that well up in your throat; whimpers that threaten to become moans, base and wanton, but the King stops, raising his head enough that he can address you. "Do not hold yourself back, pretty," he tells you, stroking down your thighs. "I want to hear what I do to you." He makes as if to resume his task, but then all at once pauses, giving you a curious look. "Does your husband not do this?" he asks.

And perhaps it is not something that you should reveal, but you shake your head, and say, quietly, "No, he has never."

The King raises his eyebrows slightly, and you think he is about to offer an opinion on that fact, but he seems to stop himself, and instead only smiles at you, perhaps thoughtful. "A cunt this sweet deserves to be tasted," he says, licking his lips before again lowering his mouth to you. And though you are not certain it is proper, it seems it is what the King desires, so this time you do not silence yourself as be begins anew, letting the gasps and cries that his tongue elicits from you echo off the walls of the room, becoming louder and louder.

He licks inside you, moving in and out, and your hips lift up off the bed as if of their own volition, your response purely instinctive as you feel your approaching climax building uncontrolled inside you with an intensity that far exceeds anything you have managed with your own hand during your nights alone. The King's tongue moves on you, his hands gripping your thighs as he holds you down and open for him and just when you are sure you cannot take anymore, overwhelmed with it as you are, something breaks within you, letting go. Your body tenses, releases, tenses again as you cry out, abandoned and unheeding and the King does not relent in his attentions for one single moment, bringing you to even further heights, over and over until at last one final shudder rushes through you, and you fall back, utterly spent.

The King presses a gentle kiss to your throbbing sex, then pulls away, but you can still barely catch your breath, every panted exhale a desperate little whine as he crawls up beside you. His eyes are alight with something that you would not dare to name, his face framed by tangled strands of hair that brush over his bared shoulders. His lips are shining wet, and as he kisses you, you taste yourself on him, his tongue in your mouth just as commandingly skilled as it was between your legs, and you moan, barely recovered as you still tremble with echoes of your completion, gradually fading.

He lies back, next to you, and you turn onto your side, now somewhat calmed, at least enough so that you can look at him. You have never not thought him attractive, but it would seem those distinctive features have arranged themselves into something much more than that; something strangely, wondrously beautiful to your eyes. Without thinking, your hand hovers in the air, but you stop yourself, uncertain. "May I..." you ask, swallowing nervously at your own daring. "May I touch you, majesty?"

"You never need ask permission for that," he says with the hint of a smile, taking hold of your hand and placing it on his chest. He guides you across to his nipple, the small peak of it stiffening as you stroke it.

"Oh..." you murmur, needing no further encouragement as he releases your hand, caressing him of your own accord, your fingers smoothing across the rise and fall of his breast to rub his other nipple. The muscle beneath it flexes, pushing up, and you gasp quietly at the suddenness of it, but you do not stop, moving downwards, feeling out the other muscles that run down either side of his stomach in sectioned-off ridges.

They are tight and firm, so much so that you wonder if he is consciously tensing, holding himself taut for your touch, and the idea that the King might be taking the trouble to present his best self to you sends a small thrill through you.

"Now lower," he tells you, his voice soft, and you swallow, obeying, your hand sliding down to tease at the edge of his breeches, which are still securely laced, though it would be difficult to miss the proudly erect outline of his manhood that is visible through the material.

You trace your fingers lightly over the length of it, brave as you dare, and he inhales, sharp and quick. "Oh, you have grown bold, haven't you?" he says, laughing breathlessly, again smiling at you, but this time it is wide and easy. "Take it out for me, if you want to play."

You breathe, biting your lip, not daring to look at him for fear that you will blush as you kneel up beside him, your fingers shaking and your heart racing as you untie the knot at the waist of his breeches, easing the laces open. He is not wearing any underclothes, and you force yourself to not yet look at his... cock, you say in your head, as you pull his breeches down and off, over the solid bulk of his thighs, past the sinewed curves of his calves.

He does not say anything, but he shifts himself enough to make your task easier, watching you with darkly fascinated eyes, and when you are done, you do not hesitate, taking his cock in hand.

It is thick in your grasp, fitting perfectly within the circle of your palm and fingers, as if that is where it belongs, and you stroke it, careful, slowly moving up and down. The King closes his eyes, letting out a groan, his mouth slightly open, his hips arching up to push into your touch.

And it makes you feel something you do not entirely understand, to see such a reaction from him, to suddenly be aware that he is, in some sense, at your mercy while in this position. This is a man who holds more power than you could possibly ever even begin to imagine, but there are, perhaps, other kinds of power, ones which you yourself might wield, even over a King, and that is a knowledge that does not quite sit comfortably with you.

But then he opens his eyes, one hand slapping at your buttocks. "Get on me, my pretty," he says. "I want to feel that hot, tight little cunt of yours."

You nod, rushed and obedient, breathless with your own need as you straddle his thighs, somewhat uncertain as to the correct way this might work, but it seems obvious enough as you hold his cock, lining it up against your entrance. You inhale a long, steady breath, and begin to take him in, lowering yourself down onto him; slowly, slowly until his full length is inside you. And you feel for a moment as if you might cry with relief, with the feeling of it, because this is what you have needed, what you have been longing for, to be filled like this once again, that ever-present yearning ache within you finally beginning to be sated.

But there is more, you know. "Ride me, then," the King tells you, his voice hoarse. His hands grip your thighs, squeezing tight, and he says, "Show me how you move."

And so you do, and though you may never have been taken like this before, it is not difficult to intuit what needs to be done, lifting yourself enough that you can again sink down onto him, your body seeming to know this as something familiar as you repeat the motion, taking to it easily and instinctively.

"Yes," he whispers, the word extended into a hiss, his grasp on you keeping you to a rhythm that only seems to grow more intense, more urgent.

Your hips roll into it and he moans, the sound of it like something desperate. "God," he grits out. "Oh, my sweet girl, you fuck like a whore."

And you freeze, instantly. Reality crashes down upon you, an overwhelming shame suddenly sliding cold up your spine, because you knew, you knew you were being too forward with him, allowing yourself to behave in a manner not fitting to a woman who is being shown the King's favor, but you were so lost in it, unable to help yourself, lustful creature that it seems you are. "I'm... I am sorry, majesty," you whisper, your voice shaking.

"For what?" he asks, looking up at you, confused, his hands remaining on you, attempting to urge you on, but you do not respond. You cannot, not now, and you kneel up, letting his cock slip out of you, bowing your head submissively as you sit beside him, trying to ignore the emptiness already throbbing at your core.

"What on earth is wrong with you?" he snaps, sitting up. "Tell me," he demands, roughly grabbing hold of your wrist, but you do not dare to look up, unable to receive his gaze, too ashamed of yourself.

"I do not mean to be improper," you answer. "I only wish to please you."

"You do please me," he says. "You are pleasing me..." He shakes his head, clearly irritated. "How did I indicate otherwise?"

"You said..."

"What?"

"That word..."

"What word?"

"Whore," you whisper, barely able to say it, humiliation burning hot on your reddened cheeks, because that is what you must be, you know it now: a whore.

The King does not say anything for a long minute, but then, without warning, he reaches out, grasping your jaw in a firm hand, tilting your face up toward him, forcing you to meet his eyes even as you struggle to look away.

"Has someone called you that?" he demands, his expression hard. "Has someone shamed you for taking enjoyment in the physical?" You do not reply, but he does not release you, glaring at you with an authority that makes you quake with fear. "Answer me, girl."

You nod, as best you can, and he relaxes his grip on you, sitting back, and you hear him take a deep breath.

"Then they are a halfwitted ignorant who is not deserving of a woman like you." He closes his eyes for a moment, as if consciously containing his anger, and it is only then you realize with some surprise that his disapproval is not actually directed at you. "That was perhaps an indelicate way to put it," he says, "but I meant it as praise, I promise you."

"You... you did?" you stammer out, not understanding.

"Yes, I did," he says, and takes your hand in his, holding it, his thumb stroking gently across your palm. "I like that you bring me pleasure, but what gratifies me the most is to see the pleasure that you take for yourself when we are together." He pauses before going on, seeming to choose his words with an extra care. "It is... beautiful," he says, looking at you, and there something soft in his face, so openly tender it makes you shiver. "It is a most precious thing and anyone who would say otherwise is a fool of the very highest order. Are we understood?"

"Yes, majesty," you answer meekly.

"I will not allow you to feel even the slightest shame," he tells you, "not for one single second."

You nod, blushing, trying not to smile, because it would appear you have not displeased him, and a weight seems to lift off your shoulders, lightening.

"Now," he says, "may we go on as before?"

"Yes, majesty," you reply, again, and now you do smile, shyly, but you know your eagerness shows.

"My good girl," he says, smiling back at you, and your heart flutters inside your chest to see it. "Begin slowly, if you wish, but keep on in the previous way," he tells you, giving you a sly glance, as he adds, "if you would be so kind."

He lies himself down, and once more you are over him, but this time with no hesitation, again taking his cock inside you, easy and full. You move, just as he has asked, just as before, and he breathes out, his hands settling on your hips. You rest your own hands over them, holding on to him, watching him, his face, as you go on.

His eyes close, and he soon starts to moan, again, but even louder this time, the sound of it seeming to fill the room. He thrusts up into you, pulling you down onto him as his body stiffens, every last remarkable, powerful muscle visibly tensing, his hands tightening on you, his head arching back.

He is even more handsome like this, you think, and though you do not finish along with him, you do not mind, for you know there will be more to come, that he will not allow you leave him until he has satisfied you again and again.

You wait, then climb off him, lying down beside him, and he pulls you into his arms. His skin is warm against yours, his body somehow managing to be soft and hard all at once, and he kisses you, lazily unhurried, his mouth wet and open until he breaks from you.

"So lovely," he murmurs, gazing at you, eyes shining as he smooths your hair back off your face. "So very, very lovely."

You lean over, daring to initiate another kiss, and he delights at your boldness, laughing wickedly into your mouth.

But this time, when he pulls away, he is more serious. "I have something to ask you," he says, taking your hand, fingers threading through yours, idly moving back and forth. "And I know that as your King I can compel you to do whatever I wish, but I am granting you explicit permission to deny me if that is what you would prefer. Is that quite clear?"

You nod, curious as to what he might require of you, what would need such a disclaimer.

He does not speak for a minute, and you remain silent, watchful, until he finally says, "I want you to stay here with me, to be of use to me whenever I desire you."

And such an offer may be more than you could ever have imagined, but you cannot be certain what he is actually proposing, what the reality of it might mean for you. "For.... for how long?" you say, haltingly.

"I do not know," he replies, careless. "As long as you satisfy me. Until I grow tired of you."

A sharp chill runs through you at the thought that he will indeed one day perhaps no longer desire you, and though all you want to do is say yes and disregard the consequences of it, you still have other loyalties, duties that call you.

"What about my husband?" you ask.

"What about him? Would he even care?" the King counters, and you have no answer to that.

"I have..." you say, aware how naive you sound. "I have to work, on the land. His family need my help."

You know it would not be right to abandon your obligations, however tempting the idea, but the King waves his hand, as if it is nothing. "I will send them one of my own laborers to use as your substitute. A woman as fine as you should not be shovelling pig shit for a living."

"Oh," you say, because you are not accustomed to being so casually provided for. But it seems you are in the King's world now, and things are different here.

You are not so foolish you do not know that if you stay, you will likely have no life to return to, that by the time the King grows weary of you your husband and his family will never accept you back. But then, you muse, what do you have to return to even now? Because what you have been living since your marriage is surely no life at all.

"Tell me, then," he says, holding you tight against him, encircled in the warmth of his embrace. "Will you remain with me?"

"Yes, majesty," you state, firmly decisive. "I will."

He stares at you for a second, almost as if you have surprised him, but then a slow, triumphant smile spreads over his face and he kisses you, again. "Well," he tells you. "It seems we can take our time, then." He runs his thumb softly over your mouth, looking at you. "Oh, my sweet one," he says, "we are going to enjoy ourselves, aren't we?"

And you cannot know what the future holds, but you do not think of that, only nodding in agreement, because for now, you could not ask for any more.

#ohnojustwrites #pac #pac imagine #wwe imagine #aew imagine #only literally TWO YEARS #after part 1

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theemightypen · 5 years

Note

Awful first meeting & hairbrushing/braid - Eothiriel?

per usual, this ran away with me so SORRY FOLKS

–

Dol Amroth is known for its sea views, yes, but Lothiriel has always had a soft spot for its rivers.

Growing up the sole girl-child in a house full of men, she is perhaps not the most…lady-like of Gondorian noblewomen. She much prefers a horse-back ride–none of that side-saddle nonsense, thank you very much, Aunt Ivriniel–to a leisurely stroll through the city, a rowdy day spent racing on skiffs with her brothers to Ada��s friends pleasure cruises, and Valar knows there’s nothing quite as satisfying as a quick, refreshing dip in one of the cool rivers of the Belfalas instead of a constrained bath in her rooms. So yes, she quite likes the rivers and all the freedom they afford her. To escape the pressures of being a princess, to escape the responsibilities of being a sister, to forget she is “the only trueborn Lady of Dol Amroth”–if only for a moment.

She may not have fought in the War of the Ring with arms, but she has fought her own battles. Helping to keep the Coast defended in her father and brothers’ absence, keeping her people fed, trying against all good sense to keep her own spirits up–

Well. It is past, now, and she can enjoy the quiet trickle of the water and the warmth of the sun on her skin. Aunt Ivriniel would be appalled at both Lothiriel’s casual riding attire and the fact that she has abandoned said riding attire in favor of her shift, but she cannot bring herself to care, at present. Besides, she’s chosen a part of the river she knows well–removed from the more traveled paths, but shallow enough that she need not fear drowning should she fully submerge herself.

Which she does, sighing blissfully as the cool water flows over her. The sky is blue, the leaves summer’s beautiful green, and she is alone for once, with only dear Niprehdil for company. Her horse, at least, cannot pester her with questions about the upcoming feast.

“It is a lovely day, isn’t it?” Lothiriel asks, swimming back towards the bank and settling on the cleanest rock she can find to slowly dry off.

Niprehdil nickers softly in response. Smiling, Lothiriel sets about combing her hair–it will tangle horribly if she does not, and the last thing she needs to do is give her aunt another reason to scold her in front of “their” guests. As if the running of the household has not been firmly in her hands for the past three years! Besides, no one save her family knows about her habit of swimming in the river–

The sudden crunch of a branch being stepped on makes her stop her combing. The sudden appearance of a man–blonde haired, bearded, and shirtless–makes her freeze.

Muffling a surprised squeak, she rolls off the boulder, intending to crouch behind it until he goes away. Oh, why was he here? No one has ever, ever happened upon her before, not in all the years she’s been coming for her swims. This bend of the river was hers!

Slowly, she raises up on her toes to peer at the intruder. His hair gives away his heritage: one of the Rohirrim has found her sanctuary. Too late she remembers that their encampment is situated in the nearby clearing. She has met a few Rohirric soldiers before, in Ithillien visiting Faramir, but this man is unlike the rest. His height is extraordinary, even from this distance, and his shoulders are no unhappy sight either. The thought makes her blush. Aunt Ivriniel really would have cause to scold her, this time.

A whinny precariously close to her ear makes her jump; Niprhedil, having clearly sensed her distress, has ambled over to inspect her sudden descent from the rock.

“No, no, no,” Lothiriel hisses, running a hand over Niprhedil’s snout, “I am fine, go back to your grass–”

“Who goes there?”

Oh, Valar, she thinks, squeezing her eyes shut.

“I can see your horse,” comes the voice again.

Cursing herself, rivers, and nosy Rohirrim in general, Lothiriel forces herself to stand, pressing closer to the rock so that her state of undress is not readily visible. “Good afternoon,” she says, attempting politeness.

The man’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. “….good afternoon.”

They look at each other in near painful silence, long enough that she is able to take stock of 3 things: that he seems to show no sign of retreating to another spot along the river, that he has a hairbrush of his own in his hand, and that he is horribly, distressingly handsome.

“I–”

“Are you lost?” He asks before she can speak.

Lothiriel’s brow furrows. “Lost?”

“Aye. For I cannot fathom why else a lady would choose to venture out alone”

Oh, Valar. If he discovers who she is, it will be an utter disaster! Lothiriel likes her soon-to-be cousin very much, and cannot bear the thought of Eowyn thinking poorly of her. Which she surely shall, should this man report back She opens her mouth, intending to…to.to lie, to tell a half-truth, to do something, but what comes out instead is:

“And how do you know I am a lady?”

The man’s stern expression morphs into something wry. It does nothing to lessen his appeal. “Well, you do have the look of one.”

Lothiriel looks down at herself–she is mostly hidden by the rock, it’s true, but her shift is hardly what would pass for appropriate attire for any Gondorian noblewoman, especially when in the presence of a man.

“You must not know many ladies, then,” she says before she can stop herself.

The man snorts. “So you are not a lady, then? Or at least not a lost one.”

“I am not lost,” she admits, “and as to being a lady, I fail to see how that is your business.”

“You are certainly a noblewoman. And a foolish one, at that, to go off unaccompanied.”

Lothiriel bristles. “I have been exploring these woods since I was a child. I need no guide, no chaperone, no–”

“Clothes, apparently.”

“I have clothes! They are just–” She flaps a hand in their direction, where she left them neatly folded on top of her satchel. “….over there.”

The man snorts again and Lothiriel decides he is not truly that handsome. How could he be, and be so rude!

“You are lucky indeed, my lady, both that I have a younger sister and am accustomed to the mischief young women can get up to, and that I am only here to wash my hair. What would you have done if I were a thief? Or a lingering soldier from Harad? Or some other man who meant you harm?”

She scowls at him. “I am not so defenseless as you think!”

“Oh? Pray tell how a young woman of noble birth, alone save her horse, without clothes, would defend herself from harm.”

Years of prodding and teasing from her brothers has made Lothiriel slightly prone to impulsive acts, and that’s what has her flinging her hairbrush at him. Its heavy oak handle catches him in the temple. She only has a moment to see the surprised look on his face morph into one of pain before he stumbles back into the river with a mighty splash. Lothiriel feels a brief surge of triumph before it becomes clear her victim is not resurfacing.

“Oh, Elbereth!” She cries, darting towards the water as quickly as she can. It is not so deep and the current is hardly strong here, but her unexpected attack has clearly left him stunned. Irritating as he may be, she scarcely wishes drowning on the man. She dives in, the water making the burden of his weight a much easier thing than it would be on land.

He splutters back into consciousness once she’s hefted him onto the bank.

“I am sorry!” Lothiriel cries. “Really, I did not mean–I’d forgotten the handle was so heavy, I never meant to make you fall in–”

A rumble of laughter stops her panicked apology. She can only gape at him as he rolls over to lie on his back, shoulders shaking with the force of his amusement.

“…my lord? Are you …are you quite well?”

“I stand corrected,” he finally manages once his laughter has stopped. “You are adequately armed, my lady.”

That startles a laugh out of her. “I will be sure to keep a case of them on hand at the next feast. If I am accosted by a boring or pushy lord, I will have my hairbrush at the ready!”

The man snorts again, turning his face towards her with a wide smile. She smiles back, feeling much more inclined to deem him handsome anew, with his dark eyes softened by good humor and the corners of his mouth curved upward, and–

And still completely bare-chested.

His eyes dart down and back up again, and Lothiriel blinks, confused, as his face floods with color. “My lady, while I am grateful for the rescue, I think it best if you return to your rock.”

The reason is rapidly apparent: she is still in her shift–her completely soaked through shift–that is now clinging very, very improperly to her skin.

“O-oh, yes, of course” Lothiriel stutters, leaping to her feet and moving away from him, “I-I had really better head back regardless, I know my aunt will be looking for me soon. You…you will be alright, my lord?”

“As long as there are no other hairbrush-wielding noblewomen to be found in these woods,” comes his wry response, “I suspect I will be fine.”

“Good!” She cries, yanking her dress on over her head–it will be soaked through by the shift, but there is nothing for it now. “A pleasant day to you, my lord!”

Niprhedil mercifully allows her to clamor into her saddle without complaint. By the time she is settled, the mystery Rohir is standing and watching her with obvious amusement.

“Good day, my lord!”

“So you’ve said already.”

Unable to help herself, she sticks her tongue out at him, earning another deep laugh. Blushing and thanking the Valar she’s been able to extract herself without revealing her identity, she tugs gently on Niprhedil’s reins, turning her towards home.

“So am I never to know the name of my rescuer?” Comes the Rohir’s voice again.

Lothiriel’s flush deepens and she throws him a glare over her shoulder. Surely he has guessed that to do so could be damning, certainly for her, and mayhaps even for him!

“There is a higher chance of you falling in that river again than me giving you my name, my lord. This is farewell, truly.”

She thinks she catches a flash of disappointment in his expression before she presses her heels against her mare’s side and rides off.

–

“You are very distracted this evening, brother.”

Eomer winces as Faramir steps up beside him, looking far too smug and knowing in the flickering candle-light of Imrahil’s hall. He likes his almost brother-in-law, but he likes less the man’s damnable ability to read people so well.

“Perhaps I am simply unaccustomed to you Gondorians’ idea of an evening well spent.”

“Hm,” murmurs Faramir, “I suppose that could be true.”

Minutely, Eomer relaxes. Perhaps the Steward’s famed powers of perception have been addled by the flow of fine Dol Amrothan wine and Eowyn’s presence?

“But I think there is another cause.”

“He met a mystery lady in the woods today,” chimes in Eothain, nudging Eomer’s shoulder as he does so. “Hasn’t been able to think of anything else since.”

“Eothain,” he hisses, annoyed and mortified all at once. Annoyed, because his captain should know better than to say such things in front of Farami. Mortified, because it’s true.

“Oh?” Says Aragorn, appearing from seemingly nowhere at the worst possible moment. “Did I hear something about a mysterious lady?”

“Just so, sire,” Faramir confirms. “And in the woods, no less.”

There is something worrisome in Faramir’s tone.

“Rather an odd place to meet a lady, Eomer.”

“I did not intend to meet anyone. I only wanted to wash my hair before tonight’s…festivities–”

“On Eowyn’s orders, no doubt–”

“Yes,” Eomer begrudgingly admits. “She told me I was under no circumstances to smell of horse in Imrahil’s ballroom.”

“A wise woman, your sister.”

“The wisest,” agrees Faramir.

“You,” Eomer says, pointing a finger at Aragorn, “are meddling, and you,” a jab in Faramir’s direction, “are biased.”

Faramir shrugs while Aragorn grins.

“Come now, Eomer, tell them about your lady! One of them is bound to know her–”

Which is precisely why he hadn’t said anything in the first place. What if she was no lady? Or worse, what if she was already someone else’s lady, which would make his cursed, illogical fixation on her even less appropriate? But Bema help him, when was the last time a woman had surprised him like that? Made him laugh so easily? Before the War, most likely, and certainly before the Kingship that has made him such a prize for Gondorian and Rohirric noblewomen alike. Besides, if she had wanted him to find her, she would have given him her name, instead of riding off in a righteous–and infuriatingly attractive–fury.

“I have not been to Dol Amroth in many years,” Aragorn says, pulling him from his thoughts. “And am likely to be of little help in your search for her.”

Eothain turns hopeful eyes on Faramir, whose expression is far too contrived to be truly innocent.

“I may not know many ladies of the area,” he admits, “but my cousin might be of more use to you.”

Eomer cannot help but arch an eyebrow at that; Elphir, many years married, has eyes only for his own wife. Erchirion’s great love is the sea, and Amrothos knows far too many ladies to be a trustworthy source.

“I do not mean any disrespect to your cousins,” Eomer says, “but I cannot see Elphir, Erchirion, or Amrothos being acquainted with such a lady.”

“You might be surprised. As it is, I wasn’t referring to them.”

“You have another cousin?” Asks Eothain. “Bema, just how many children does Imrahil have?”

“Four. The three boys and a single daughter.”

Eomer’s brow furrows. Yes, he does think he remembers Imrahil mentioning a daughter, at some point between Pelennor and Morannon. The week remains a blur, even now, and it’s not a time he particularly likes to dwell on–no matter how grateful he is for the Prince of Dol Amroth’s friendship and Eowyn’s miraculous recovery.

“She’s here somewhere,” Faramir murmurs, before his face splits into a wide smile. “Ah. Found her. Lothiriel!”

A tendril of worry slides abruptly and unpleasantly into Eomer’s stomach. For the back of Faramir’s cousin’s head is worryingly familiar: long, dark waves of hair, raven-sheened in the candles’ glow, tumble down her back.

And then she turns, clearly searching for the source of her name and Eomer nearly chokes. For she–Lothiriel, Faramir’s cousin Lothiriel, Imrahil’s daughter Lothiriel–is the hairbrush wielding lady from the river.

She drifts over, so focused on her cousin that she seems not to notice him, saying, “You called, Faramir?”

“I did. It seems Eomer King needs assistance in locating a lady I think you know very well.”

Her brow furrows in the same adorable way it had earlier, when he’d accused her of being lost, and then she turns sharp, dark eyes on him and–

“Oh, no,” she moans. “You are Eomer King?”

Aragorn and Eothain burst into laughter while Faramir’s smile sharpens into something nearly predatory. “He is, Loth. Won’t you be a good hostess and introduce him properly to the lady of the river?”

Blushing to the roots of her hair, she drops into a quick curtsy. “I–hello again, my lord.”

“Hello,” he says, grinning despite the own warmth he feels in his face, “I am glad I did not have to go for another swim to learn your name, Lady Lothiriel.”

–

(Months later, the betrothal of Lothiriel of Dol Amroth to Eomer King goes smoothly, until–

“I cannot say how grateful I am to you for allowing me to visit your home, Imrahil,” Eomer says, ignoring the sharp pinch of his fiance’s fingers at the insde of his elbow.

“It did seem to suit you, on your last visit,” Imrahil says benignly, similarly ignoring the glare his daughter gives you. “The sea air has that effect on people, I’ve found.”

“The sea is lovely,” Eomer agrees, unable to keep from smirking as Lothiriel blushes beside him, “but I myself have always preferred rivers.”

From behind them, there is a sudden gasp and then a cry of “Lady Ivriniel!”

“Oh, Valar, she’s fainted again,” grumbles Amrothos. “We’re always telling her she needs to wear less layers in the summer months–”

“Yes, that’s exactly it,” Lothiriel squeaks. “Too many layers.”

“Too many layers indeed,” agrees Eomer, with a kiss to her knuckles.

She hits him with a hairbrush for the second time that night. Eomer can’t say he truly minds.)

#eomer x lothiriel #eothiriel #prompt response #cosmonauthill #my writing #someone stop me from writing 3K long prompts good LORD

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realityhelixcreates · 5 years

Text

Lasabrjotr Chapter 47: Sixth Mask

Chapters: 47/? Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: Teen And Up Warnings: None Relationships: Loki x Reader (Someday) Characters: Loki (Marvel), Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent), A Lot Of Things Happen All At Once, You Might Have Been A Little Hasty, Summary: You gather up the courage to confess to Loki.

Through a sleepy haze, you realized that someone had entered the room with you. It wasn't Loki, but an unfamiliar woman-probably a healer's apprentice-who approached you and stroked your face.

“Just one more to go.” She murmured. “It's you, hmm? How unusual. I wouldn't have expected that of Asgardian aristocracy. Oh well. He's brought this on himself.”

She left then, without doing anything else, leaving you wondering, in your drowsiness, if she had just been a dream.

*****

“Look, you can say that the royal family has a tradition of charity as much as you like, but we don't have a huge reserve of resources anymore.” Brunnhilde argued. “You can't just snap your fingers and get what you want. Where are we getting the money? Where are we getting the builders? Ours are all tied up in constructing the city! We don't have the bodies, we just don't have them!”

“I'll contract other humans to do it!” Loki suggested. They'd been at it for a few minutes now, working out kinks and blocks to his plan. “Humans built these things in the first place; they should know how it works.”

“They don't build them anymore! They build...I don't know, tasteful three-bedroom apartments, and things like that!”

“No, they do.” Thor interjected. “I've seen this 'reconstruction' Loki speaks of. I once visited Sweden on an Avengers world tour-press conference event.”

Loki snorted.

“Yes, I know, but it's not much different than a royal procession, is it? We needed the positive PR at the time. And they greeted me specifically with a longhouse they had built according to archaeological finds. They thought it represented Asgardian living quarters.”

Brunnhilde laughed. “Did you tell them?”

“Of course not!” Thor said. “They put so much work into it, and they were trying to honor me. It was a heartfelt gift. So I stayed there, and I 'consecrated' it for them. It's a museum now. But my point is; there are enough people who know how to build these things that they were able to do that, and it's not the only one they've made in modern times, so we should actually be able to hire contractors who know what they are doing.”

“Okay, but again, where are we getting the funds?” Brunnhilde continued. “This is a lovely plan, sure, but it's pure fantasy unless we get the cash!”

“I'll...just...figure something out.” Loki grumbled. “There's got to be some way a god can make money on this planet.”

“You could strip.” Brunnhilde suggested.

“I shan't!” Loki refused. “There must be something else, something less base. Besides, no one wants to see my flesh. Why don't you strip?”

Brunnhilde shrugged. “I could, but I'd be keeping the money.”

“How about you ask _____? She might have some ideas.” Thor suggested. “Honestly Loki, if you want to know anything about Earth, it's probably best to ask the locals.”

“Yes, yes.” He griped. “Fewer surprises, more involvement, I get it. When she wakes up, I'll present her with my idea, and see if she has any suggestions.”

“Do you have any meetings today?” Thor asked.

“Just a few. I'll get them done early, and we can discuss things over dinner. I wonder if she likes candles? I'll set a few out and see.”

Thor fondly watched his brother rush to his duties, still bursting with ideas. It had been a long time since he had seen Loki look so hopeful. This time would be better than the others, he was sure.

*****

You woke fully, what seemed like hours later, all fuzziness and drowsiness banished. You felt great, in fact. When you swung your legs over the bed and hopped to your feet, there was no residual dizziness, and when you rubbed the side of your head, there was almost no pain.

The healing machines certainly did a good job! Maybe they were adapting to your alien physiology? Either way, you were grateful for it.

When you checked your tiny hand mirror-one of the trinkets that dangled from your domed brooches, it didn't seem like your face had gone back to normal yet, but maybe it would take more time. Or maybe, since the bones had already healed, they couldn't be convinced to 'heal' any further.

Either way, you should probably go let Loki know that you wouldn't need that wheelchair any more. In fact, you were going to just leave it here, so someone else could use it, if they needed it.

Everyone in the healing wing was busy with the mystery illness, so it was easy for you to slip out unnoticed. No one else had died from it yet, but no one had gotten any better either. You didn't need to pull any healers away from their jobs to send for Loki; you would just go find him yourself.

And while you were feeling so good and fresh, perhaps you should discuss your feelings with him as well. After all, if you got it out into the open, and let him reject you, then you could get over it faster and start fresh, without it all bubbling over in your mind. Better to just get it over with.

*****

The last meeting was over, and Loki slumped wearily on the throne, exhausted by how many people still seemed to think they could live and make demands the way they used to. It had been so much easier when he'd been Odin. The people accepted his verdicts; they argued with Loki, lied to him, tried to manipulate him, as if constantly forgetting that he knew what they were doing. Or perhaps they simply didn't take it into account, perhaps they were just doing what they had always done, and were incapable of fathoming that anything had to change. But that woodenness, that rigidity always led to collapse in the end, and Loki meant to keep that from happening. They would have to learn flexibility.

But he was done with that for the day. Now he needed to drum up some candles for a nice dinner with you, and see if you had woken up yet.

Compassion. You clearly valued it, and so, he was going to show it. You would just love this plan of his, he knew it. He would show infinite kindness to these dedicated humans, and you would fall madly in love with him, and-

He was getting a little ahead of himself. It wouldn't be that easy. This was just one step in the journey to prove himself. You had seen the prince and you had seen a little bit of the god, but he still had to show you the man. Who was Loki, under all the titles and fame?

He looked up at the sound of the door opening, straightening up in the throne when he saw you quietly enter.

How swiftly the weariness fled at the mere sight of you! How his tired mood soared at the prospect of spending time with you. He thanked the Norns for you.

“Come, enter! I see you are walking on your own now. How do you feel? Do you hurt at all?”

You smiled at him. “Only a little sore, hardly at all. I'm walking just fine now, but if I have any problems, I'll let you know.”

“That's very good to hear. Would you like to take dinner with me? Formally, I mean, not in our rooms. I'll have something nice made, just for us.”

“You mean, like a date?” You asked, almost teasing. Loki sat up straighter.

“Well...if you want to look at it that way, I certainly cannot stop you. You can approach, you know. You don't have to keep your distance when I am on the throne.”

“I'm not interrupting anything?” You asked. “No more people to meet, no more problems to resolve?”

“Not for today. It's just us now.”

“Oh, that's good. There's something private I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Private?” That might be a good sign. If you wanted to open up to him, that meant you felt close to him, and trusted him. Something felt odd about this though. Like the hazy unreality of a daydream. Like you were reading from a script of things he wanted to hear.

He swallowed as you approached. Had your hips always swayed like that when you walked, or was he only noticing now that he had admitted his feelings to himself? Either way, it was doing things to him.

Thank the Norns he always had the prescience to wear long tunics...

“Loki...” You purred once you'd gotten close enough that he could hear you do it. “I need to tell you something. Now, you're free to take this as you will, I don't expect anything from you. But I can't hide this anymore.”

“Yes?” His voice came out more excited than he'd intended. Could it be?

You leaned over him, arms resting on the throne, and his pulse hit a fever pitch. His eyes torn between yours, your lips, the soft swell of your breasts under the modest clothing you preferred, the memory of which was still etched in his memory...

“I've been feeling strongly for you lately. I've come to care for you, and I think I might even be falling for you. I know that's probably not what you want from me, but I thought I should let you know.”

“No! That's exactly what I want from you!” The words burst from him like an inexperienced youth, someone so full of emotion that he could no longer properly manage it. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into his lap. “ I feel the same. _____, I adore you! I would do anything for you! Anything!”

Some tiny part of his mind nagged that this was too good to be true. The cynical part that didn't believe he deserved happiness. This was all happening so fast. But you had always been a little unpredictable in temperament; it was one of the things he liked about you. Perhaps you had simply realized how good he could be for you, and decided to go with it. How could he argue?

“Anything?” Your smile dazzled him, taking his attentions away from his doubts, the insistence of his lie-senses that something was off. “Then kiss me Loki. Have a well-deserved reward!”

You pressed your lips to his, filling him with pure, electric bliss. It drove every doubt from his mind; the slightly wrong scent of you, the suddenness of it all, the odd hollowness of your back, none of it mattered. Only the delightful experience of your mouth.

By the time he recognized his growing weakness, it was far too late to pull away, and he found he did not want to. He didn't want this moment to end; he was happy to die here.

It seemed you were going to make sure that he did.

*****

Heimdall rushed through the halls, face layered with concern. He did not recognize what he had just seen, but he knew it meant danger. People jumped out of his path, knowing that he, of all people, must be given the right of way. Few things could make Heimdall run.

“Your Majesty!” He cried, bursting in on Thor's solitary dinner. “I have seen danger in Asgard.”

Thor leaped to his feet. “What? Where? What is it?” He demanded.

“I am not yet certain. I have never seen such a being before, but someone has invaded the city. Every time I looked, her face was different, but I can see the strings of life she trails behind her. She is responsible for the illness of the workers, though I know not how or why.”

“Where is this being?” Thor asked, grabbing Stormbreaker, which he had leaned against the wall nearest the door.

Heimdall's orange eyes scanned through the walls.

“The throne room.” He said finally. “Hurry!”

*****

You wandered the halls, seeking out a guard who could speak to you in a language you could understand. When you finally found one, he seemed very confused to see you.

“Oh, you must go in circle. Must get lost.” He said, when you asked where Loki was. “Throne room. That way, then that way, then that way. Two doors.”

You got fewer stares nowadays, most of the people in the palace complex having seen you often enough to no longer find you all that unusual. No one bothered you as you made your way towards the throne room, wondering if the murals had been finished yet. There would be so many paintings on the walls by the time the artists were finished, that you didn't think there would be a blank spot anywhere.

You found what you thought were the doors the guard had referred to, trying to remember if this was the same place you had met the king to sign yourself to citizenship.

Well. It was time to confess, and come clean. Maybe he would reciprocate? No no, it was best not to hold that hope. This was just to clear the air, so that you could move on.

You quietly opened the door.

You quietly closed the door.

It seemed you didn't need to wait for his answer after all.

#lasabrjotr #loki x reader #loki (marvel)#thor (marvel)#valkyrie (marvel)#brunnhilde (marvel)#Heimdall (Marvel)

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