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hotdamnhunnam · 3 years

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He Calls Me Honey Tits

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

A/N: Here’s the third and last part of you and Arthur being lovers during his time in the whorehouse! In which this cheeky bastard slathers honey on your tits and teases you and pleases you until you’ve never been so damn aroused 🙃🍯💦

Pairing: King Arthur x F!Reader Warnings: smut, swearing, Brothel Boy Arthur being a cheeky little shit (licking honey off your tits, eating you out and denying you his dick until you beg for it)

Word Count: ~2.2k

… Continued from Part 2 [Read Here]

“How may I be of service, honeybee?”

The beaming blue-eyed bastard leads you to his bedchamber and softly shuts the door. Though he’s the brothel boy it feels like you’re the whore. You’re far more smitten in his presence than you want to be.

Sensing the indignation fuming off your body, Arthur smirks as if it’s funny. “Anybody ever told you that you’re lovely when you’re huffy?”

Suddenly, your cunt lips feel swollen and puffy. Slick as if this cheeky thief had dipped his finger in your honey. Try to stay composed and classy. “You can’t work your charms to get your petty crime past me. This is about the money.”

“But of course it is. Just business.” Arthur winks and it’s without a doubt the wickedest shit you have ever witnessed.

Keep your wits before he sucks you deeper into this—whatever this shit is. “You said that we could meet at your place to sort out the fucking payment. Here I am to fucking claim it.”

“Ohh, she bites,” he taunts like he has any right. “Such nasty language from a mouth so nice. Love, what’s your price? Just name it.”

“I am not your love!” you furiously huff.

“Not yet. But I’d bet just the thought has got your honeypot all wet.”

Did he just—he just—sweet mother of Jesus—

“Mmm, I’d love a taste,” he teases. Sea-blue gaze mirrors the lust that’s written all across your face. “Can’t let such honey go to waste.”

“You’ve stolen quite enough already, I daresay.”

His voice is steady, yet his cock is raging madly as he steps so close that you can almost feel it. “Didn’t steal it. You just let it slip away.”

All your dignity and self-restraint, that is. Such is the picture that his passionate words paint; he’s driving you to fucking madness. Sheer destruction through seduction is this little bastard’s favorite game to play. And he won’t stop until he’s buried in your honeypot today.

***************

Just how this sweet sticky mess ended up spread all across your tits, you can’t quite say.

Fuck it. You’re naked on the boy-whore’s bed with honey slathered on your bare breasts and your cunt is dripping buckets. Blue eyes own you where you lay. Somehow the bastard has convinced you that for what he stole from you today at market, shameless pleasure is the best way to repay.

The session started with a fight over the jar that he had thieved. He taunted you until he wanted you more than he could believe. More than his station in this house even allows. Voices raised, daggers from your gaze. Aroused. Amazed.

Saw how his thirst aligned with yours, as shouts and hisses flung between you turned to roars, and pinned you down onto the bed with feral force. Paused to make certain you were both on the same page. A man of care and caution though the beast in him may rage.

And here and now with words unspoken that blue gaze of his explores. Impales you to the core, seeks out your secret inner whore. All set to free her from your inhibitions’ cage. The truth of you that any other man including your own lawfully wedded pig always ignores.

Do you want to fucking engage?

Of fucking course.

And so you do. Fire and water all at once, this man’s effect upon your cunt, flaming and fluid. This is what true pleasure is, you think as he attacks heavy and hot. Slut for the once and future king of fucking Camelot. Already his, as he claims your lips in a cataclysmic kiss, crashing together in a spell of breathless bliss.

He tastes of courage. Hunger, unfed all the stronger. Poor boy forced to live on stolen scraps and half-full bowls of porridge. Forced to fight and fuck and forage. Forge his way through filth without the faintest clue his royal blood doesn’t belong here. Here with you he’s poor no longer.

First few minutes of your time spent in his bed the boy-whore shatters you to bits.

And now you’re here with stolen honey smeared across your naked tits.

You gasp a giddy laugh at how ridiculous this funny business is. “You cheeky little shit!”

He smirks and lets the now half-empty jar of honey clatter to the floor. Hovering over you all set to make damn sure... that you will always and forever be his filthy little whore. “You know you fucking love it, honey tits.”

No fucking use denying it.

Arthur as well had stripped his shirt off earlier, in those first few seconds of this passionate blur, so you can see and feel the sculpted muscles of his abdomen and chest. He is a god and nothing less. Those chiseled ridges rub against your honey-covered skin and make a fucking mess. His mouth descends deliciously on yours again as skillful hands knead at the soft flesh of your breasts.

“Sweet little goddess,” he breathes out amidst the kisses and it’s too much to be honest. King among men making you feel like his queen. “Swear you’re the loveliest damn thing I’ve ever seen. The loveliest.”

The purity—he’s doing you so dirty, loving you so clean. Feel you belong here with him surely, more than anywhere on earth you’ve ever been.

Your fingers fist twined in his glorious gold locks. Hips bucking frantic to seek friction up against the fucking hard bulge of his cock. Still sheathed in cloth as he’s not yet disrobed his lower half, to free his raging shaft—likely to burst right through the fabric since he’s so massive and solid as a rock.

With every second that huge cock of his grows harder, taking your desire farther. Inner slut escapes the cage that he’s unlocked.

“Ughh—fuck me, Arthur...” you cry out, needy and loud, all honey-smothered, hot and bothered. “Fuck...”

His focus shifts off of your lips down to your neck and then your chest and suddenly he starts to suck.

Your mouth gapes wide to make a sound but has no luck.

Choking on air as you surrender to his touch. He’s just too much. Soft lips squeeze tight around your nipple, slurping honey as it dribbles. Grinds the stiffness of his meat against the wet heat of your crotch. Glittering blue eyes glance at you beneath the gold fringe of his lashes, as your body throbs and thrashes. Getting off on the effect he has because he loves to watch.

You moan and whimper, one breast lavished in attention from his slick tongue while he works the other with his skillful fingers. Swipes his thumb across your stiff peak as he teases at the other with the pearl ridge of his teeth until your senses fall apart. “Please, Art...”

The bastard chuckles in a breathy little huff. “Don’t worry, love. Promise I’ll fuck you good and hard,” he reassures you meaning it with all his heart. “Just thought I’d better whet my appetite to start.”

Of course he’d crack a stupid fucking pun, while you’re coming undone. Scrapes his enormous bulge against your aching cunt, with a deep grunt, reminding you what you both want. How hard he’s gotten and how wet you are. You’re seeing fucking stars.

Flattens his tongue against the valley of your cleavage now to slobber up the sugary gold mess that’s gathered there. Licks slowly upward as he owns you with the bright blue of his stare. Honey spreads all across his trimmed blonde beard and sweetens every hair.

Of all the men upon this earth no one has ever been so fair.

Dips in the hollow of your throat, and you damn well nearly explode.

And then those luscious lips are back on yours again. Lose track of where your breathing ends and his begins.

The taste of honey should be overwhelming sweet, but something sweeter yet sparks into being where your soul and his so intimately meet. The hunger only this can feed. Each on the road to being everything the other ever needs. Perhaps not so just yet, but in the moment you first met, he’d planted that passionate seed.

Already want him now to plant another seed deep in your hole. Already know that someday he will fill that role.

But not today—today is all about pure pleasure and the game he came to play.

To claim you as his whore in every goddamned way.

Between kisses you plead with him although it’s such a struggle now to talk. “Please, Arthur—fuck...”

He snickers. That majestic bulge of his harder, and bigger. “Mmm, so pretty when you’re begging for my cock.”

Those words—the sheer filth has you so aroused it hurts—you shut your eyes for fear they’ll pop out of your sockets.

He reminds you now of how you had denied him when he’d asked you for a sample of your product. Shut that door and tried to lock it. On his own terms he had gotten his hands on it, taking what he wanted. Dirty and dishonest. “Wouldn’t let me taste your sweet honey at market. Seems I’ll have to steal that pleasure from your honeypot myself before I fuck it.”

Oh, that’s obscene—wait, does he mean—what—shit...

Upon the bed he shifts, sudden and swift, a blaze of sex, until his lust-crazed gaze is level with the slick between your legs. And that’s when the truth of it hits.

Young Arthur’s hunger for your cunt is even stronger than his hunger for your tits.

The two of you have kissed and licked most of the honey from each other’s mouths by now so that his tongue is mostly clean. And that’s exactly as he wants it so that he can taste the flavor of his lovely future queen.

He’s a complete whore for your flavor. Buries his beautiful face deep in your folds like every precious drop was made for him to savor. All at once delicate yet dominant, as he feasts on your cunt. Art makes an art of it, worshipping every part of it.

Your wetness glistens as it gushes out across his gorgeous features from the second he descends; and yet with him the peak of pleasure’s not the end. Rather the very fucking start of it.

You shout his name, loud without shame, your inner slut unleashed with only him to blame. Your body and soul absolutely his to claim. The stolen honey and the money were just all part of the game; he knows that this is why you came.

Needless to say you need his cock inside you now but he intends to make you beg. He could spend days continuing to feed facedown between your legs.

One of his hands has wandered down to his own crotch to give himself the stimulation he deserves, now as two fingers of his other hand are pumping in your hole, while he devours your cunt whole, lips latching tight around your tender bud of nerves.

Your thousandth wave of pleasure rolls. Scream for his cock until he’s finally stripped himself naked and mounts you with his rippled muscles pressed against your curves.

And now at last uses your body for the purpose it was put on earth to serve.

Your tight hot cunt is so completely fucking soaked, he nearly chokes and almost spills his load inside of you at his first fucking stroke.

Catches his breath and bites his tongue, knowing he can’t hold off for long. Till now he’s never known true home. The women of this brothel housed him and raised him since he was young, yet though he’s grateful for their love he never quite seemed to belong. With you he does as though he’s been here all along. Feels like the whole world is his kingdom. Kingdom finally fucking come.

You’re feeling everything the same. Someday his queen for now his filthy little slut. The flood. The flame. The fluid heat as you’re split open on this man’s majestic meat until you feel his power beating in your blood. The beast in each of you untamed. Such fucking force. His power is all fucking yours. Of fucking course.

Kisses you long and deep and hard, until the white hot bliss that’s burning through him shatters into shards.

Pulls out in time to take his meat in his own fist and spray his seed across your stomach and your chest. Painting you like a work of art. Pearly white gleams against the honey gold that still clings to the soft skin of your breasts. Just from the feel of being coated in his load your throbbing cunt pulses until it falls apart, convulses in a rush of pleasure rooted somewhere in your slutty little heart. You’ve never felt so fucking blessed. Of all the moments of your life to date this is without a doubt the fucking best.

Yet this is all just how it starts. Your days here in the boy-whore’s bed have just begun and you don’t doubt he’ll take you to new heights of ecstasy for all the fucking rest.

He’s feeling everything the same. Smiles and calls you by your name—honey tits.

Knows you fucking love it. Though at first you’d claimed the reason for this visit was just business... clearly that’s not what this is. Business has turned to pleasure just as you both wanted it.

***************

Hope you enjoyed this and would love to hear if you did! 🤗💗

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wtfisgoingonanymore · 4 years

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Birthdays In Camelot

Sooooooooo three of my very good and very dear friends had their birthday and I wanted to do something for them. I know this isn’t much, but 1. I am dead inside and school continues to kill me, and 2. …yeah. I’m dead inside. I just wanted to dedicate a little something to you three amazing beautiful perfect angels because you guys are some of the best people ever and you’re always so kind and nice to me. I wanted to return the favor somehow someway. I probablyyyy should’ve made three separate ones for each of you, but I have multiple papers to finish up for next week. I’ll try and do better next time, but for now this is all I have.

So!!! in the spirit of @gayfirebender @thatone-nerdygirl and @junemo10 , this is for you.

Birthdays:

Birthdays are a big thing for Merlin. When he was in Ealdor, he and his mother didn’t really have enough money to celebrate in a big way.

It was usually a slightly better porridge or a new tunic if they were REALLY lucky.

So when Merlin started earning his wages, he immediately looked for the best present he could ever get his mother and then he one upped it the next year

It started out with a delicious meal stolen from the royal cook herself and worked it’s way up to a dress that looked simple enough for a peasant but felt like it was made for a queen

Having ties to Arthur sure helped that out

SO! because of Merlin’s love for birthdays, you know he goes all out for all his friends

It makes Percival so. soft. whenever Merlin skips to him on his birthday and gives him a present

His favorite, by far, is when Merlin gave him an amazing little tree that he takes care off very well. (It’s a magical bonzai.)

Elyan is excited for his birthday cause Merlin gave him the best gifts. His favorite is definitely the new armor design that Merlin drew up based on different knights from different kingdoms. Elyan made it and uses it for himself and himself only.

Leon was very surprised to get a gift from Merlin. It was long long ago when Arthur was still prince and they barely spoke at all.

He was surprised to catch him in his room- setting down a basket full of large bottles.

Merlin was a blushing embarrassed mess at being caught. He and Leon had never had a proper conversation since before that.

He stuttered his way to explain that he knew Leon was constantly aching from past battle wounds, so he made large batches of Gaius’ special salves and potions for Leon to use. That is objectively the best gift Merlin ever got for him because of the memory that came with it.

However, Merlin setting him up on a date with George will soon be the best one yet.

Gwen is a pouty baby because “Merlin! You didn’t have to get me anything! I’m already happy with our friendship.”

She accepts the gifts anyway. Her favorite is definitely the specially made and designed family seal that is dedicated to her father. She cried so much and keeps it with her all the time

Gwaine. Ohhhhh Gwaine. His gifts started out fun, you know? A pint of mead, Finally being able to take Merlin out for a pint, A fully paid night of drinking. Those sort of stuff

But then Merlin goes and starts writing him all these long ass letters. All these letters that talk about how much Merlin appreciates him and how great of a person he is

And Gwaine never fails to ugly cry on those letters. He keeps them all in a special box- it remains his most prized possession.

Lancelot counted himself lucky. With Magic now an available option, Merlin gave Lancelot the best of the best presents from day one of their friendship.

His absolute favorite present, however, is the magichand made knight’s armor, outfit, and sword that Merlin made for him after becoming a knight. It was enchanted too because obviously

Gaius, like Lancelot, got some of the best gifts ever with the help of magic.

Merlin gave him tons of very exotic and new herbs and plants to work with. He’d summon them from a land far away just for Gaius and then plant them somewhere, so he’d have more.

But the best one by far is the new equipment Merlin got for him. Each and everyone had words painted or etched onto it: “Best Father Figure” “Best Physcian” “Best Mentor”. It was nice little reminders that touched Gaius’ heart constantly

Before Morgana left, Merlin’s gift to her were not at all the exquisite gifts that she normally got. No, it was much much better.

Merlin always gave her a peasant’s dress and snuck her out to explore the lower town with him. They’d buy little random trinkets and food and then go out to play and eat in a forest clearing far away from the tyranny and the hate and the duties of royalty.

She didn’t realize until later on that those were the best presents because Merlin always took her to a place where magic was most alive and beautiful and calming and thriving.

Arthur’s birthday was always a tricky one for Merlin. This was his other half and the man he was kinda a little bit very in love with- it had to be perfect.

But in the end, it didn’t really take much thinking at all. This was his other half and the man he was very much in love after all.

Arthur would never be able to decide what his favorite gift from Merlin was. Anything that man gave him, he absolutely loved with all his heart

He didn’t know if it was the refurbished painting of his mother or the tiny farm that was set up for the both of them when they needed a break or maybe all the necklaces and letters and bracelets and tunics Merlin crafted especially for him.

He does know which one he takes especially good care of- even more so than his farm and painting. The most precious gift Merlin has ever given him: His magical heart.

And so obviously, Merlin had to have the best birthday of them all. While everyone got him nice gifts too, they had to give him the best one after a very stressful and bumpy magic and love revealing year.

Normally, it would’ve been a feast. Arthur knew that was definitely not the case. This was Merlin- he wanted it small and intimate.

They set up the nice round table dinner with just their group of friends.

Merlin was already crying when they brought them there.

After eating, they’d all give their gifts to him one by one. Just seeing his friends line up made Merlin cry with appreciation again. Arthur made him sit on the throne for this one.

Percival grinned wide as he gave Merlin pots of the most beautiful flowers and herbs that would typically be needed in potion making.

Elyan was practically bouncing off the walls as he presented a staff he made alongside the druids.

Gwen had to shove Elyan out of the way to present the very special hand made outfits she made for him- fit for royalty.

Leon smiled and chuckled as he gave him the exact same potions and salves Merlin gave to him that first time because now he knew that Merlin needed it too.

Gwaine smirked and stuck his tongue out as he went out and brought back Hunith with him. While they were greeting each other, he slipped his very long and more tear-inducing letter with the rest of Merlin’s gift.

Gaius smiled as he gave Merlin a key. A key to his new magical workshop that Gaius and his very bad back worked on. Later on, Merlin would cry in there as he read all the labels Gaius put everywhere: “Best Son” “Best Warlock” “Best Student” “My Best Merlin.”

Arthur was nervous ash he walked up to Merlin. He tried to speak three times before sighing in defeat. He handed him a scroll that officially declared the magic ban lifted.

Merlin was sobbing at that point. He didn’t know how it could get any better really.

Except that Morgana burst in with a gust of wind in a true dramatic fashion.

Everyone was on defense immediately as they turned to face her.

They all let out different gasps and choked sobs when they were not faced with a wild haired all black outfit Morgana, but with a Morgana in a peasant dress, a basket in hand full of knickknacks and food, and tears in her eyes.

Later on in the night when Merlin slipped into Arthur’s arms, he got his final greatest present.

Ygraine’s ring and four words.

“Will you marry me?”

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high-lady-lana · 3 years

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The Fawn and Her Fox

Chapter Two: Trauma

The town house is quiet, a rarity with the group my youngest sister tends to surround herself with. It makes more sense when I make my way downstairs and see only Lucien at the small kitchen table, papers surrounding him. The stairs creak beneath me and he turns to see me.

"It's just us. Feyre and her circle went on a vacation to the dawn court to talk with Helion, Theasan and Tarquin about the Spring Court situation and what to do with the mortal queens."

Dread curls in my stomach. A vacation. "How long will the be away?" I ask, attempting to sound casual as I rummage the cabinets for a bowl, ladling myself a bit of porridge Lucien must have made.

"There's no telling." He winces as I sit across from him. "I am not much of a cook."

I glance down at the still hot porridge, and take a tentative bite, with consideration I look for cinnamon and sprinkle some into the porridge, stirring and take another bite. I nod in satisfaction. "Ah, you just needed a tad bit of cinnamon. Easy thing to miss, men don't seem to have working taste buds, especially fae ones."

Lucien coughs as he chokes on his water, covering his mouth, his skin a bright shade of red. For a moment I think he might need assistance when he finally drawls in air and leans back in his chair and sweeps me with an appraising look. "You have got some sass. I suppose you would being Feyre's sister and all." He smooths a hand down his shirt and seems to be collecting himself after his fit. "I wouldn't necessarily say our tastebuds don't work, I believe it's just because we are too hungry to complain."

A smile tilts my own mouth at his amusement and I fill the silence with eating my food, washing it back with tea with a bit of milk and no sugar. I glance at his papers and feel a bit foolish, like I am snooping into his affairs. "What are all of those?" I ask as I clean out my bowl and cup.

He stretches in his chair, reminding me of a huge jungle cat I once saw in a text book, lithe muscles quivering as his body arches. Golden skin peeks from beneath his shirt and my cheeks flush. "Boring stuff really, taxes. Things that still need to be built from the attack, the installation of extra wards, reports from the Illyrian camps."

My brows bunch. "Illyrian camps, shouldn't Cassian be in charge of that? Azriel even?" Cassian is the general of Rhysand's armies so it would only make sense he wade through the reports.

"Typically he does, but currently he is quite busy training Nesta. I volunteered to take the weight from his shoulders."

My attention peeks at my prickly older sister. I lean against the counter, trying to seem as casual as possible. "Is there any word about how she is doing?"

Lucien's eye softens. "I am not privy to that kind of thing, you're best bet would be to ask Feyre or Rhysand," his voice is gentle, I suspect because he doesn't want to disappoint me.

I nod in understanding and click the tip of my fingernails together. Loneliness curls around my chest when I think about spending the day by myself. Usually I would bake with the wraith twins or spend time with Feyre. "I don't suppose you would want to go into town with me today?"

His eyebrows hike in surprise. "That sounds nice, let me grab my shoes and we can go now."

For the first time since the change, the silence between Lucien and I isn't awkward. Usually, around Lucien I don't know how to be, I don't know what to do with my hands or my body or what to say. As we walk along the Sidra he's here and it doesn't feel forced and tense.

His shoulder brushes against mine as we walk, the breeze ruffling my hair, my dress swishes around my legs and his scent fills my lungs as I breathe in. "What do you enjoy doing?" He asks.

I push my hair from my face, sitting at the edge of the bridge, slipping my shoes off and dipping my toes into the water. He sits down beside me. "I like watching ballets, symphonies too. Obviously gardening, it helps me think."

The salty smell of the Sidra wafts up, tickling my lungs, the soft smell of burning fires tinting the air with masculine musk. I lean back on my hands, tilting my head to look over at Lucien, the sun caressing his golden skin. His red hair brushing up against my bare arm, his gaze fixed on the horizon before us. The bond between us is light, airy and full of light.

"What about you?" I ask.

He finally turns his gaze towards me. "Back home I liked to visit the small towns in the court, in the Spring court I enjoyed sparring and even reading when I got the chance. Now, really I enjoy anything that gives me something to do. Feyre spars with me occasionally same with Rhysand," he says.

"I feel the same. I used to know myself and now, even after so long I feel like I don't know me. My interests are still the same, but really all I want is to stay busy. Keep moving forward so I don't have to think."

"Thinking is a scary thing. Especially for people like us who have trauma waiting for the right moment to strike."

His words tug at something in me. "Your trauma still affects you?" I ask.

He nods. "Of course. A great deal still affects me. Things I could have done different, what I saw during the war, other things..." The way he says other things makes it seem much more than something nondescript.

With a sigh, I dip my toes into the cool water, the fish swimming up to bump against my feet and nip my toes. My hair brushes against my arms and when I look at Lucien I see him studying me.

"There's an play house on the other side of town, playing a symphony tomorrow. I got tickets if you would like to go." His words are choppy and hesitant as if rethinking his offer as he speaks.

A small smile tugs at my lips. "I haven't been to an symphony in a very long time," I say. Memories of my childhood float through my mind. The grand house, the parties mama used to throw, the trinkets father used to bring home from his journey's and the operas, the plays, the orchestra, it was all so lovely. A luxury I haven't been able to enjoy. Why not live a little now? I have an eternity to enjoy the things I wish to.

"What time?"

He startles me with a smile and tells me the details before we get up and make our way up the rainbow, back towards the house.

#sarah j maas #sjm #acofas #acomaf #acotar #acowar #autumn court #elucien #fanfic #fanfiction #elain x lucien #lucien vanserra #lucien x elain #endgame #The Fawn and Her Fox #Chapter Two #night court #day court #spring court

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coffeebleeds · 2 years

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Cardverse - Chapter 6

The day of the wedding swiftly approached, and Catalina did not have much more interaction with the King. He was holed up in his study day and night, and she only really spoke to him at mealtimes. Even then, Maria dominated much of the conversation. Not that she meant to, Catalina knew, but there hung such an awkwardness between the betrothed that neither could breach the walls that they had inadvertently set up. Breakfast, dinner, supper, and tea were all painful, both in the conversation and the lack of tasteful food. That first supper with the Queen and Jack had apparently been a show - they weren’t quite so extravagant in their daily lives. To Catalina, however, a Spade’s extravagance was a Heart’s modesty. She longed for the days of plucking sweet fruit from her family’s orchards, of riding her horse through vineyards rich with plump grapes, of resting at the end of the day with a mug of warm cider. The abundance of the Hearts, which she knew only as the common way, felt infinitely distant. If she had to eat porridge and preserved oranges one more morning, she would scream.

But luckily, she finally got her wish. Rather than joining Alfred for yet another awkward breakfast of goop, she was greeted early in the morning with exactly what she had been craving. Christina set a tray on the small table in the consort’s chambers, the smell of which immediately woke even the dozing Maria. She sniffed, roused, and practically fell out of bed.

“Are those tomatoes?” She clamored toward the tray, her mouth watering. “Oh my God, and sausages!” Without waiting for her sister to join her, she scooped up the first sausage and sucked it down. Catalina began to wonder how her sister didn’t choke. “Sweet, sweet real food!”

Catalina sat down by the table, taking a bit more time, but all the same she couldn’t resist the urge to put a whole roasted tomato in her mouth. It popped delightfully, filling her mouth with warm, acidic juices. It tasted sweet, and fresh, and like home. Swallowing and quickly dabbing at the corners of her lips, she turned toward Christina. “Why are you bringing this to us now?” She asked. “Not to be ungrateful. I’m certainly not.” Far from it.

Christina grinned with all the confidence the servant could muster. “I made them special for you this morning, as a wedding present. The head cook was very displeased with me, but when I assured her that I would take no time at all, and that my lady would reimburse the kitchen, she agreed.”

“You made these?” Maria asked, ecstatically shoveling as many berries into her mouth as possible. “I could kiss you.”

“Please don’t kiss my maid.” Catalina interjected, which was quickly followed by laughter from all parties.

“I’m flattered, my lady, but if your heart is won by breakfast alone, Lord Phillip must be in some great danger indeed.” Christina joked.

Maria laughed again, waving Christina away jokingly. “Men are nothing to a hot meal. They all claim to be the nectar of life to us women, but we all would just as quickly trade them for a basket of soft-boiled eggs.” Speaking of which, she happily cracked one open and began sucking the yolk free from its casing. That was not the typical way of eating these, as the custom was to dip strips of toast into the yolk, but Maria liked to skip the middleman as often as she could. “In Phillip’s case, I’m going to trade him for a bottle of strong wine the moment I see him again. He sent me a letter just the other day, did you hear of that?” Without waiting for a reply, she continued. “He’s decided to cut down half an acre of our trees to plant a muscadine vineyard!”

Catalina tilted her head to one side. “Didn’t you ask him to do that?”

“On the east side!” She huffed. “And he cut them down on the west! Not that it matters terribly, as that spot will probably be better suited for the grapes, but it just proves that he doesn’t listen to me at all.”

The lady and her maid shared a quick look, both trying to conceal their laughter. Lord Phillip adored Maria, and they had been present in the many conversations where Maria requested her vineyard, without really specifying where. To think that Maria could think herself so ill-used when it was obvious to everyone who stepped onto the estate that the man thought of little else than how to please his lady, well, was pure amusement to them. Maria would hem and haw and whine all day long, and swear that men were good for nothing at all, but they had seen how often her attitude shifted upon seeing her husband. Women didn’t need men, that was quite certain - but none could argue that Maria did not love hers.

In that, Catalina felt a little envious. Phillip began courting Maria when the latter was first introduced, and her debut announced. He admitted that he had been initially struck by her beauty: indeed, she was beautiful, and liked to hear of it. But beyond that, she had captured his heart the first time he heard her laugh. He vowed to hear that laugh every day of his life. And, save for such trips as this, where necessity separated the lovers, he was successful. Catalina began to feel a sting in her heart as she listened to Maria spin a tale of pitiful woe about how her adoring husband abused her so, and she felt less hungry than before. She wasn’t going to marry the man who would cross oceans to see her smile, or make a fool of himself to hear her laugh, or even speak anything more to her than what politeness required. The King of Spades was distant, and distracted, and she really felt herself pitiable indeed.

“Hey, Cati!” Maria’s voice cut through the younger sister’s thoughts. “What’s got you looking like a cat pounced on your parrot?” She pushed another tomato toward Catalina, probably hoping that the fruit would cheer her up. “It’s your wedding day, don’t look so sour!”

Catalina forced a smile, taking the tomato and rolling it around on the plate, her finger squishing into the skin, but not quite enough to break it and let all the juices out. “I know. Isn’t it exciting?” She let her smile falter for half a second as she tried to think of why it was exciting. “I’m- ah, going to wear blue.” Is that the best she could think of? And it wasn’t even good.

“Aw, come on, Cati~!” Maria nudged her. “He’s not the worst. He’s just been busy lately. You remember the way he looked at you when you first met. I’m sure he’d be all over you if it wasn’t for that business with the late frost and the pirates.” She scooted her chair closer. “But you won’t have to worry about that tonight, I can assure you. When he sees you in that dress, he’s going to be so taken with you that he’ll hardly know how to speak. And it’s not like he can run back to his study again once he takes you to his chambers. You’ll have him all to yourself, all night, and he’ll realize exactly what he’s been missing out on by trying to marry his books.”

It was almost incredible how adept Maria was at crafting encouragement that both uplifted and mortified her sister. She didn’t walk a fine line between proper and lewd; she danced back and forth across it with vigor. But Catalina couldn’t say that she wasn’t a little amused and cheered by Maria’s words. “Thank you.”

Maria popped another sausage into her mouth, satisfied that her work was done. “And even if he doesn’t, you can sneak out with me in my trunk and we’ll carry you back home to Hearts. But I suspect that we won’t have to. With a gown as gorgeous as the one we have for you, no man, woman, or anyone with eyes really, will be able to resist.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Indeed, as Catalina twirled in her gown only a few hours later, watching the way it billowed out in a bell of icy clouds, she found herself agreeing with Maria. Music filtered into her dressing room from the main hall, where she knew an assembly of the most notable of the two Kingdoms waited for her to make an appearance. It wouldn’t be long now. When the clock struck the hour next, she would emerge, and the ceremony could begin.

“You look gorgeous.” Maria breathed, taking a step back from her work of pinning Catalina’s veil over her hair and into a long train down her back. “You’re as lovely as a Magnolia in bloom!”

“I’ll say.” Spoke a male voice from the other side of the room, startling the women.

Catalina whirled around, even as Maria shoved the younger behind her.

Leaning against the doorway, his hair tied up with a blue ribbon, dressed in a formal uniform, was her fiance. He smiled at the pair with a playful twinkle in his eye, one arm propped on the door frame, one leg crossed over the other. “Sorry, ladies. Didn’t mean to startle you. Just wanted to remind you that the ceremony starts in ten minutes. Might want to finish up, if you haven’t already.”

Catalina shrunk back, her cheeks blooming red. “It’s terrible luck to see your bride before the wedding!” She called to him from the safety of Maria’s shadow. “You need to leave immediately!”

The Spade laughed. “Aw, I’m flattered, my lady! But I’m afraid I can’t claim you, though I would if I could.” He bowed low to the two Hearts, and Catalina saw that his hair was just a touch curlier than Alfred’s. “My name is Matthew, Ace of Spades. Alfred is my twin brother.”

“The Ace…” Catalina heard Maria whisper in wonder to herself. They’d both heard much of the Ace of Spades since arriving at this palace two weeks ago. His name was spoken in hushed tones, in excitement, in awe. The man who led his forces to victory against the would-be Clubs invasion at the age of seventeen. The man who defended the Spades from pirate invaders with nothing but a single ship and a net shot cannon. The man who would have been King, if not for the Jokers’ interference. The man who Alfred worried over day and night. He was here, at last. And he was in her dressing room.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, sir!” Catalina returned the polite greeting with one of her own. “I do hope that we will get the chance to speak properly, while you’re here.”

He took a step back, out of the room, his heels clicking together with military precision. “As do I, my lady. If my brother can spare you.” He gave her wink, which made Catalina feel a shock of warmth all over. “Nine minutes until showtime.” Without saying another word, he turned, returning to his post at Alfred’s side. Or, so she supposed.

“I take it back.” Maria shook her head. “Not all men are worth less than a basket of eggs. That man is worth at least a basket and a half.”

The minutes dwindled away, ticking by on the tiny clock that hung around Catalina’s neck. She hadn’t taken it off since that first day, and it gave her some comfort even now to look at it, and to run her fingers along the engraving on the back. She held the golden surface up to her lips, the breath of a whispered prayer fogging the mirror-like surface. “I don’t know if you would have chosen me, Amelia. But I hope to make you proud. If your son is half as goodly as the King before him, the Spades will prosper.” She looked out from behind a curtain, catching a glimpse of more than just blues. Her family’s red dotted the crowd. “May the Hearts also prosper. And may peace reign over both our lands.”

She heard Maria scoff behind her. “Much good a ghost will do for you. Especially one you don’t know.”

“I know her well enough.” Catalina whispered, not wanting to be heard by the assembly. “I know both of her sons, and I’ve opened her secret door. I’m sure she would hover close if she wished to, and so I might as well ask for her blessing too.”

Maria rolled her eyes. “You’re better off asking our mother for a blessing. She’s still alive and will hear you much better.” She pointed with her fan out toward the crowd, where a bloom of red twirled through a sea of blue. “We’d best make time for her especially at the reception. She thinks herself the cleverest creature in the world, I suspect, for making this match.”

But she didn’t make this match, Catalina thought, biting her tongue. She called in a favor with her cousin, the Jack of Hearts. After that, it was no longer her doing at all, no matter what the woman wished to take credit for.

The time for idle speculation ended. The music swelled, as did Catalina’s heart. She flipped the veil over her face and stepped out from behind the curtain to a collective gasp of awe. Her gown shone with hundreds of crystal beads, sparkling like starlight in the evening glow of the wide windows of the hall. But she hardly heard a note, though the strings sang beautifully. Her eyes were fixed ahead of her, and all her ears relayed was the beating of her heart.

One step.

Then another.

Time slowed to a crawl as she approached the altar.

This was it. This was really it. Her last chance to run. Her last chance to return to her beloved Hearts. The idea of returning was almost laughable now, since she had come so far. The hopes of her family rested on her shoulders. The King’s consort, even a Spade King, was such an enviable position that she would be shunned forever for turning it down. She could launch her family into the royal circle in only a couple words, a few more steps. The Kingdom of Spades would be in the palm of her hand, ripe as a plump blueberry. She could make Maria’s life infinitely easier, secure advantages for her own relatives. Her young cousins could attend the Spades’ University. Her mother could command respect in the courts once again.

And she could secure a treaty that would save millions of lives.

Her eyes briefly darted toward the smears of red through white lace. The Trio of Hearts sat in the front row, the Jack between the taller King and the shorter Queen. She was doing a service to them as much as the Spades. With this treaty, with this marriage, she would win them an advantage that would solidify their prosperity until the end of time. With their fertile soil and the Spade’s automatons, no Heart would ever go hungry again. And neither would any Spade, she hoped.

She stopped, meeting a figure who she could barely make out to be the King. He mostly looked like a wall of dark blue and gold. But when he reached forward, and lifted the veil from her vision, she thought that there was no more magnificent blue than his eyes. His hands took hers, and she became aware once again of how much larger his fingers were than her own.

She’d often heard stories of grooms who wept upon seeing their brides, or men who couldn’t hide their joy, grinning like fools and unable to compose themselves. Lord Phillip had been like that, nearly fainting when Maria stepped into the room - Catalina thought his men would’ve had to catch him. She didn’t really expect Alfred to look at her like that, but she wasn’t prepared for what she saw.

His face was polite. Nothing more. Nothing less. No great elation, no stirring in his soul, no excitement to wed. A passive smile, a gentle inclination of his head. And even when he whispered, “You look beautiful,” Catalina thought she could never feel more wretched even if he had turned up his nose and rejected her in front of everyone. She wished very much that he would put the veil back over her eyes. But then, the crowd might think her budding tears were joyful.

The vows were nothing of significance. She’d heard the same spoken dozens of times, and rehearsed them herself. The usual promises to remain faithful, to cherish, to respect, to care for, to hold above all others. These the King recited with clarity, loud enough to fill the assembly hall. But it was when she was about to begin her own recitations that she heard the most peculiar thing of all.

He lowered his voice, and looked directly into her eyes. “And I swear,” He continued, “that I will make you a home here. And you will never want for anything that it is in my power to provide. And I hope, someday, that we might become more than companions by fate.”

The words stunned her, and her mouth tried to form speech quite a few times without success. Silence stretched over the crowd, and she suddenly remembered that they must now be waiting with bated breath for her response. She musn’t wait much longer, or else they would begin to suspect that she did not intend to speak at all.

“And I, a Lady of Hearts, give my life and love to you, King Alfred of Spades.” She swallowed, forcing her voice to increase in volume. “To you I give my days and years. To you I bend my ear and open my heart. To you I give my hands, to care for you all the rest of our lives. To you I give my joy, to adore you above all others. Not the bountiful fields of Hearts, nor the glittering mines of Diamonds, nor the fierce mountains of Spades, nor the towering forests of Clubs, could ever part my soul from yours. Until the end of our seasons upon this earth.” At the end of these vows, he gave her hands a gentle squeeze, as if to assure her that she’d done the ancient words justice.

And just then, she remembered that it wasn’t quite over yet. The King’s hands let go of hers, raising to rest against her cheeks. His eyes left hers for a moment, glancing downward at her lips - she felt her stomach drop into her feet. Naturally, she knew that she had to kiss him. It was traditional, and expected. But now she wished that she had rehearsed this too. But no, that would have been a ridiculous request. What sort of person practices a kiss? All the same, she really wished that she had.

She tilted her chin up, hoping this was an acceptable angle. How silly she felt, on display for the whole of the Spades (and her own kin) to see! Her cheeks burned red, and she shut her eyes so that she wouldn’t have to see their snickering grins. And it was perhaps a good thing that she did, or else she might have looked quite surprised when Alfred’s hands guided her head.

His breath was warm on her skin. His lips were soft, and brought with them the sweet taste of marmalade. Her heart hammered even louder, and she wondered if he could hear it, or at least feel the pounding of blood beneath his fingers as it surged through her body. Distantly, she heard the crowd erupt in cheers, as if they were across the sea. Though she inwardly knew that she should return to the present, and to play the part of a dignified bride, she couldn’t help herself from placing her hands over his, begging him to remain there. She might, in that moment, pretend that Alfred loved her the way that Phillip loved Maria, and that fantasy she’d muddled over for several nights upon first arriving in the palace might eventually become a reality.

But it wasn’t to be.

He left her almost as quickly as he arrived, and he seemed to suck all the warmth out of her body as he departed. She opened her eyes as he drew his hands away, his right hand taking her left, turning her body toward the cheering crowd.

“We thank you all for witnessing the union of the Hearts and Spades!” He called to the delighted assembly. “May you be merry and dine with us tonight!”

Another round of cheers, this one even heartier than the last, erupted, following the couple as they led a procession toward the garden, where tables and chairs and fountains of wine had been prepared earlier that day. Not that Catalina could think of food. Not when her lips still tingled like the sparking of storm clouds. There was only one wine she wanted to drink, and she wondered if she’d ever get a chance to taste it ever again.

#cardverse au

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royalcordelia · 5 years

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In the Blue Haze (1/1)

Summary: In which Anne loves Gilbert, Gilbert loves Anne, and Bash is caught hoping they'll come to their senses. (A post 3x08 story).

Bash didn’t think there was anything particularly offensive about his front door, but Anne gaped at it like it was about to open into the fiery depths of the earth. From his spot in the garden, surrounded by Mary’s forget-me-nots and chrysanthemum, Bash had watched Anne Shirley march up to his door a total of two times.

Ah wait, he thought amused, that makes three. Each time she spun on her heel, she’d only made it a few steps away before turning back to the door, hand raised and ready to knock. On the third time, though, she hurried down the porch steps and froze on the last one, catching Bash’s eye. Her shoulders rose up to her ears in surprise, and if Bash didn’t know any better, he’d say she’d been crying.

“Family don’t have to knock, Anne-girl. Besides, nothing in that house is going to bite you, not even the teething baby,” he called out. Anne’s shoulders relaxed, but her face was still guarded. “I called out to you when you first walked by, but you didn’t hear me.”

“I’m sorry,” Anne apologized. Bash couldn’t help but think that she looked like a chestnut colored doe, frightened to be caught and unsure where to escape to. “Is Gilbert home?”

Understanding flooded through Bash, and he stabbed his rake into the ground. He shifted on his feet, peering down at his toes to avoid stepping on the flowers. Delivering unpleasant news was never truly his forte. Anne’s distress only spread across the yard as he hesitated, so he heaved a disappointed sigh.

“Gilbert left for Charlottetown this morning. He wasn’t sure when he’d be home.”

“To see Winifred?”

Bash frowned. He loved this skinny little redheaded queen of Avonlea, and to see her disintegrating away crumpled his heart like paper. All he could say was, “I’m so sorry, Anne.”

She paled into a ghost right on the porch steps, nodding numbly. Her lips parted as if she might say something, but no sound followed. Swallowing, Anne climbed down the rest of the stairs. She shuffled across the dirt path with her battered heart bleeding on her sleeve.

“Anne?” Bash called out. She paused, looking over her shoulder with rosy eyes. “Why don’t you go in and say hello to the baby. I bet she’d be happy to see you. Take your mind off of things. ”

“That’s okay, Bash. I’ll just go home.”

“I just thought you might like a free moment to yourself, is all,” Bash explained. “But if you’d rather go back to Green Gables, I won’t blame you.”

Anne swiped a hand across her cheek and nodded. She considered heading back down the road, but eventually decided on the company of one tiny little girl. She moved into the house as if she were marching in her own funeral, a mere soul of a girl wandering around with unfinished business. Bash’s eyes lingered on her as she quietly entered the house and let out a quiet sob.

“Damn it, Blythe,” Bash spat angrily, throwing his rake into the soil. He leaned his face into the sun, drinking in all of its warm light. “Oh, I wish he would’ve listened to you, Mary.”

Bash’s work in the garden had turned the humble plot of land into a creation fitting to honor his wife, but Anne had still not come from the house. She might’ve slid out of the back door, escaping into the solace of her beloved forests. But when Bash swung up the kitchen door, he found a quiet girl rocking his baby back and forth, smooth and steady like waves on a ship. Anne clung to Delphine, pressing her face in the baby girl’s hair and sniffled. When he called her name, she lifted her head and managed a smile.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked gently. Anne shook her head, shaking Delphine on her knee. Across the table, he could see that her eyes were dry, but still red around the corner. Shiny streaks dried against her cheeks, but she’d stopped weeping some time ago. Bash searched for something to say, but Anne filled the silence by getting up to pour him a glass of water. She snuck a glance out the window before handing him the cup.

“The garden looks positively enchanting,” she complimented quietly.

“Thank you very much. I took your advice about those little blue flowers. They’re very sweet.” He paused, tapping onto his glass. “Anne, what happened with you and Gilbert?”

Anne’s eyes turned burst with panic.

“Forget I asked!” Bash rushed. “I just wondered...Sometimes he barely tells me anything straight out.”

At the counter, Anne turned her back to Bash and began stirring some of Delphine’s porridge over the stove.

“There’s not much to tell. He came to me to tell me that Winifred’s parents were going to help him fulfill his dreams and he was considering proposing. Then he left.”

Bash took a swig of his water, nearly slamming it back down on the table.

“He said he asked you…” he trailed off. Maybe he shouldn’t be spreading around his brother’s business like this.

“Asked me what?” Anne yelped, spinning around. Delphine let out a disapproving grunt. “He didn’t ask me anything.”

“He didn’t?” Bash exclaimed.

“I was admittedly a bit...inebriated, but of all the things he said to me, he never asked me anything,” Anne ranted. “He just said there was just one thing that was holding him back from going off with Winifred. And I...I didn’t know what to say! I rambled incoherently trying to gather my thoughts and then he left .” Anne finished with a bitterness in her tone that Bash hadn’t heard from her before. She sat at the table with a half-angry, half-heartbroken thud. “So no, he didn’t ask me anything.”

Bash didn’t know what to say. How could he stand behind Gilbert, explain his behavior, when this force-of-nature of a girl struggled not to cry in their kitchen. He fought off the urge to drop his head into his hands, but for Anne’s sake, he bit the inside of his cheek.

“I don’t know why I thought he’d ever…” Anne swallowed, blinking furiously, determined not to cry. “I don’t have anything to offer him.”

“That’s not true. Anne, everything that you are is more than that poor boy could ever deserve,” Bash argued immediately. He reached across the table, taking his fingers in hers. The freckles on the back of her hand looked like stars, and he gave a comforting squeeze. “For what it’s worth, I really, really wanted to be able to officially call you family. But no matter what happens, know this Anne Shirley-Cuthbert. On paper or no, you’re our family.”

Anne’s blinked surprised, but her face crumbled seconds later. She bit her lip against the next onslaught of tears, chuckling with sobbing shudders as a few droplets dripped onto Dellie’s head. The peace of the moment was almost enough to soothe Anne’s aching heart, but the silence was interrupted by Bash’s mother calling from outside.

“Mr. Blythe! We didn’t expect you home so soon! Come inside, come inside. Poor man must be tired!”

Anne shot Bash a panicked expression, and snatched her hand back to wipe away her tears. When Gilbert’s silhouette formed behind the kitchen door’s curtains, Anne shot to her feet and hid around the corner, just out of sight. She looked over, wondering if she could slip out one of the windows without making any noise. It was only when Delphine yanked at one of her loose tresses that Anne realized she had brought the baby with her. Tossing Delphine a desperate, over-exaggerated grin, she willed Delphine to stay quiet. Looked like she was staying put, at least until Gilbert went up to his room.

It was hard to tell what was happening.

“You’re back early,” Bash commented, only slightly choking at the knowledge that Anne was hiding just out of sight. Gilbert didn’t answer, but Anne heard the clinking of something small and metal dropping onto the table. A ring ?

There was a pause, then Bash said slowly, “She said no?”

“ I said no,” Gilbert replied. A gasp almost escaped Anne’s lips, but she bit her tongue at the last second. “Why didn’t you wrap a chain around my ankle to keep me from going? I made such an ass of myself.”

“You’re a grown man, Blythe. You can make your decisions without any influence from your brother. Besides, you asked me for my advice and you didn’t take it,” Bash teased, though the truth in his words was unmistakable. Gilbert only groaned in response. “Tell me about what happened.”

There was a scraping off a chair as Gilbert sat down.

“I took one look at Winifred and instead of saying Will you marry me like I planned, I said, I’m so sorry, I can’t keep courting you. If she hates me, I won’t be able to blame her. She wanted to know why.”

“What’d you say?”

“I told her why.”

Anne wished she could peek around the corner and just get a glimpse of him. Maybe he was leaning back in his chair, curly hair unruly and throat exposed. An ache shot through her chest when she remembered that she had no right to be thinking about how handsome he was. Yet, she couldn’t help but wonder, was he disappointed the proposal hadn’t gone well? If she could just catch a glimpse of his face, she’d be able to tell right away.

Silence settled on the room so thickly that Anne was surprised they both were still sitting there. But Gilbert needed time to process, and Bash was prepared to let him - even if it meant keeping Anne hiding behind the corner. Finally, Gilbert broke the silence.

“Sebastian, you were right,” he admitted lowly.

“About what?”

“It’s always, always been Anne,” he admitted. Anne felt her heart plummet into her stomach, sending a million butterflies erupting from thin air. Was he saying what she thought he was.

“I’m the biggest fool I know,” Gilbert lamented.

“You’re the biggest fool I know, too,” Bash quipped light-heartedly. Anne imagined Gilbert glaring across the table, but his chair scraped as if he had jumped to his feet.

“This is serious!” Gilbert scolded. “You know, there was this moment the other night when I went to see her. She was dancing up on this old dory pretending to be a pirate, and everyone was cheering. But you know what I saw?”

“What, Blythe?”

“Anne - with her hair down, the fire behind her, looking like the exact sight that nearly knocked me to my knees.” He paused, and Anne suddenly felt moisture on her face. Delphine reached out her tiny fingers and touched the dampness.

“I’m such an idiot. I didn’t even let her talk, I didn’t say what I wanted to say.”

“What did you want to say?”

“That I’m in love with her!” Gilbert burst. Anne nearly fell to her knees, with the shock of it. “Everything you said love is, everything you said it would feel like, it’s all there. I’ve known it since the day I met her. What have I been doing all this time?”

Anne pressed her back against the wall, and leaned her head back. She couldn’t breathe . Gilbert Blythe was in his kitchen, confessing to his brother that he was in love with her and she wasn’t dreaming. Delphine gave another tug on her hair just to remind her.

“It’s not about what you’ve been doing, Gilbert. It’s about what you choose to do now. ”

“I haven’t had a chance to think that far yet,” Gilbert admitted.

“Haven’t you?” Bash challenged. “Sounds like you’ve been thinking about it for a long time.”

Gilbert scoffed.

“I can’t expect her to listen to me. Not after everything I’ve put her through.”

Bash let out an amused burst of laughter.

“There’s the Gilbert Blythe I know. Congratulations on pulling your head out of your behind.” Gilbert swatted Bash. “Tell you the truth, I don’t think you have much to worry about.”

“What makes you say-”

It was at this precise moment that Delphine Lacroix let out an unexpected fit of giggles. Anne nearly jumped out of her skin, snapping back out of her thoughts to check and make sure Delphine hadn’t gotten into anything dangerous. But she was laughing as babies do, making Anne realize that Gilbert had stopped talking. With a deep breath, she rounded the corner and revealed herself.

Gilbert’s face turned the same shade as Marilla’s rosebush and Anne wasn’t sure if he was embarrassed or angry or both. Shame blanketed her under the soundless gazes of the Blythe-Lacroix men. She shouldn’t have listened so long, especially something so private. Lightning fast, Anne rambled out the first explanation she could think of.

“I didn’t mean to listen. I meant to leave when you came up the drive, but then I looked down and…” she bounced Delphine on her hip. Handing Bash his daughter, she wiped her sweaty palms on the skirts of her dress. “I’ll leave.”

“Don’t,” Gilbert choked. Anne’s brows shot up, and she wondered if she’d ever remember how to breathe.

“Alright,” she murmured.

Bash looked back and forth between them, then rose from the table.

“I better let you two talk,” he said, heading out of the room.

But Anne and Gilbert didn’t talk. They gazed at each other, minds dancing around the words they needed to say, but never actually coming to any worthwhile conclusions. Anne wasn’t accustomed to being left without her words, but the longer she said nothing, the more desperate and sad Gilbert’s hazel eyes grew. He’d said all he could. It was her turn now.

Dizzy with her own affection and anxious that one wrong move could send them flying apart, Anne crept forward. Gilbert watched her eagerly. When she gently took his hands, a breathy sigh escaped his lips and blew against her hair. Her presence was a balm to him, and whatever had been weighing on his shoulders began to lift away. Lifting their joined fingers, Anne leaned her face onto the back of his hand, pressing a kiss to his soft skin. Gilbert swallowed, his eyes nearly misty in the sunlight.

“I wanted to tell you everything,” he whispered. “When I was feeling more like myself.”

Anne shook her head, smiling. She didn’t need a storybook confession. She’d renounce all of her childlike ideals if it meant he loved her - and he did. Everything she needed to know, she could see peering up at him with teary, lovestruck eyes.

“You really love me?” she murmured hopefully. Gilbert’s face split into a grin, and he tugged Anne into him. Her arms fell perfectly around his shoulders, her head resting on his shoulder as if it had always meant to lay there. He buried his face into her hair and tightened his hold.

“I do,” he promised into her ear. “I do.”

A shocked sound escaped her lips - halfway between a laugh and a sob. She murmured something incoherent into the fabric of his shirt, so he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back.

“What did you say?” he chuckled. Anne bit her lip and forced herself to tear her gaze off of the wooden floor.

“I love you too,” she said. The words shot through Gilbert, and he brought his palm up to her face. “It’s so new to me, but it’s so clear. Everything you said, Gilbert, it’s all that way for me too.”

“Really?” he choked.

“Really. I just spent so much time thinking that I didn’t fit in your life, when really, you’re the only one who could ever fit in mine.”

Her eyes the color of the sea right when the moon disappears into sleep. It made Gilbert want to run down to the shoreline with her and shout into the whistling wind cries of victory. Instead, he took a deep breath to calm his beating heart, but no amount of controlled breathing or caresses of her hand would ever be enough to quiet his joyful heart. He was so far lost in his thoughts, dizzy with bliss, that he didn’t notice the glint in Anne’s eyes change. One minute she was smiling bashfully at their entwined hands, the next she was just breaths away, bumping his nose with her own. He had leaned down like a magnet pulled to her, meeting her halfway.

It was the closest they’d been together - so close that Anne could count the shades of blue hiding amongst the greens and browns of his eyes. Bringing her gentle touch to the sides of his face, she rose to her toes and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. Gilbert dissolved under her touch, holding onto her waist for purchase. He grinned into her kiss, too happy to hold it in, smiling even wider when her lips beneath his beamed just as much.

From the doorway, Bash peeked his head in and felt his heart rise up into his throat. Suddenly all the things that he’d wished his brother could have didn’t seem so far out of reach. Gilbert would go to school, he’d learn and his compassion for healing others would grow, but he’d do it all with Anne at his side. No one would love him as strongly, support him so fiercely, or keep him level-headed throughout the inevitable trials of life.

Bash’s eyes fell to the emerald ring sitting on the table. Green had always been Anne’s color. Given time, he knew he’d see the day the ring was put to good use, adorning a hand of freckled constellations.

#anne with an e #anne of green gables #shirbert #shirbert fic #shirbert ff #awae spoilers #catch this on ao3 too!#this is another fic where i feel so much calmer after writing it #ilu guys i hope you like it! ♥#tessa writes

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imagineclaireandjamie · 5 years

Note

Any HRH coming soon? Absolutely in love with this fic and these two. Your writing is out of this world and I can't wait for where this story is going, it's SO SO SO SO GOOD.

This is my submission for the One Quote, One Shot challenge by @notevenjokingfic and @balfeheughlywed. The quote assigned to me (@missclairebelle) was: “Leave, then,” he said, jerking his head toward the door. “If that’s what ye think of me, go! I’ll not hinder ye.” Happy reading!

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.)Part XX: Cuffed

It was Sunday night.

The weekend was behind Jamie and Claire (along with all of the possibilities those short hours held).

For another five nights, the cabin was behind them.

When he’d left her (fingers tangling in her hair and holding her face within inches of his, the fronts of their bodies melted together until all that separated their hearts was skin and clothes and bone), he’d whispered, “We should talk about what comes next.”

Alone as the hollow bong bong bong of the grandfather clock just outside her bathroom announced the arrival of ten o’clock, Claire sank into the bath (feeling utterly boneless) and closed her eyes.

She ached everywhere.

Between her legs where Jamie’s hips had lived throughout the preceding forty-eight hours.

Deep in her belly where a new emptiness had taken up residence.

Along the centerline of her shoulder blades where she had winched herself up from the sleeping bag on their impromptu camping trip as he closed a hand over her breast, his mouth a molten, sucking thing at her throat.

At the base of her skull where his parting words echoed (residing like an unwelcome companion to her every thought).

What comes next…

These parts of her. She knew they would continue to burn, to feel like they had been pulled taut long after dawn came and she again was the Queen, not Just Claire.

She didn’t just know that these incidental aches would remind her of their time (those precious, disconnected hours where they had blissfully lived without answering to another), she hoped that they would.

A reminder. A brand. A place for Fraser to dwell under her skin, close to the bone, twined together with the nerves and veins and vessels that made her human.

Relishing the promise of weightlessness in her bath, she lazily watched as she willed her arms to go limp and bob up from beneath the placid lavender-scented surface.

“I love you, Jamie Fraser,” she said, taking in a mouthful of milky-white bathwater. It was the first time she’d said it aloud in the bounds of her own room, in the palace where she lived for a portion of the summer. The emptiness in her belly filled (just for a moment), her heart skipped (just for one-half of one beat). She let her mouth rise up from beneath the water, drew breath, and whispered it again. “I love you, Jamie Fraser.”

Smiling to herself, she perched her feet on the edge of the tub and sank until her entire head was underwater.

She had never known it was possible to smile while screaming.

The next morning, the palace was alight with a flurry of activity as her staff prepared to depart for Balmoral.

It was the traditional second leg of the Crown’s summer in Scotland.

She was ready.

For the change in her environment (salted air and open places).

For the change in pace (the unending liveliness of Edinburgh left behind, stables where it would not be unusual for her to wander off for a ride throughout the day and disappear onto the grounds, more casual clothes, fewer official duties).

For the opportunity to put to good use the corridor between her staff’s living quarters and her own (nights in dressing gowns, trying and failing to hold back laughter as she pawed her way down dimly-lit hallways with Fraser, grabbing greedily for his waistband).

It was just as she finished gathering the things she wanted from her desk on Monday morning that Mrs. Fitz furiously blew into the study with a newspaper clutched in her hand.

“Yer Majesty,” she breathed, her voice reedy from exertion. Claire looked up from the handful of correspondence (from said Colonel) that she was banding together with a floral-printed silk scarf, nodded. Mrs. Fitz winced as the door swung shut, slamming behind her. “Colonel Fraser isna here… he’s been– weel… he’s been…”

Nonplussed, Claire asked, “Where is he?”

“Jail, ma’am.”

If given a hundred opportunities to guess where Colonel Fraser was, she was certain she would never have guessed the answer. With a spinning head and dropping stomach, Claire’s mouth tried for words, her soft palate becoming that of an infant (an obstruction in the process of trying out new sounds).

“For… what?” she managed, tripping over her words and resting her trembling hands on the edge of her desk as she rose.

Mrs. Fitz held up the newspaper, adding, “Ye need to ken somethin’ else.”

Claire took the folded paper from Mrs. Fitz and scanned its contents quickly.

It was a moment that Claire would come to think of as her death.

The article was lengthy, accompanied by photographs.

An official state photograph of Claire with Frank at the announcement of their engagement (her smile tight to her own eyes, back ramrod straight beneath his hand).

A snapshot taken of Claire by Frank in Norway (one she remembered him taking by virtue of the fact that she was seeing the photograph in print). She was cocooned in a chunky woolen knit and denim and sitting on a mountain of pillows reading in front of a fireplace.

A portrait of sorts of her ring, onyx and diamonds (one that sat in the palace museum open to the public in London along with various bits of ceremonial regalia in the service of the Crown over the years).

A grainy image of the ring next to the insignia of the local police force and two rulers (the word “RECOVERED!” beneath it screaming up from the page at once like both a howl of pain and nails on a chalkboard).

“What is this?” Claire asked, knowing as she clutched her ring finger and realized for the first time that the ring was gone.

“Ma’am, I… they… have him.”

Like a leaf in the earliest gasps of autumn, the news clipping drifted down down down until it came to rest on the desk.

“The police. He was arrested when he arrived home… from dropping ye off last night.”

The questions, exclamations, profanity scuttling around in her head fought with her lungs for airtime. The only thing that came out, though, was a choking gasp, like food gone down the wrong pipe or grief that became too much for a body to shelter. It sounded like his name.

Suddenly, she realized that screaming “I love you” underwater was not at all like the feeling of drowning inside yourself while standing on dry land.

Jamie.

In decidedly less accommodating quarters across the city, James Fraser was contemplating the fact that he had spent many nights in a German war prison.

This, with its butter-yellow slivers of sunshine, watery, lukewarm tea, and scratchy blankets, was nothing.

Bowing his head, he sighed.

After saying goodbye to Claire (his heart, his reason), he had not even made it to the door of his flat before his hands were wrenched behind his back and secured in handcuffs. His wrists stinging from the overly-aggressive slap of metal, he asked what it was that the officers (three of the local police force’s finest and three uniformed palace guards) believed he had done.

A ring had been stolen from the Queen’s private collection.

His mind whirled, the denial spilling easily (truthfully) from his lips as his head bowed (a ring? the Queen’s private collection? when? was it found?). One officer shoved Jamie’s head low and folded him into the backseat of an unmarked, nondescript black car. The insult hurled at him by one of the officers of the Queen’s guard (“ye piece of shite, ye’ve no loyalty”) coincided with his decision that under no circumstances would he ask to speak with Claire.

Oh Christ, Claire. Certainly, she would know that this was a lie, right? A misunderstanding?

The night was long, and he did not manage to sleep more than a wink or two. His bladder ached shortly before dawn, and he took a piss in the small silver portable urinal on the corner desk. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he shook his head. His weekend of stubble had seemingly devolved into a fully disreputable-looking shading along his jaw.

“At least ye look the part if ye’re in the clink,” he mumbled to himself, finishing and setting the urinal back on the desk. “And now ye smell like piss.”

In the amber haze of lost time, a day coiled around and around outside of the jail until the sun was high in the morning sky. Inside the jail, as he sipped the watery tea and ate a bowl of gritty porridge, he composed a letter to Claire (in his mind only, for he was in want of a pen and a scrap of paper). He spoke to the walls, counting the painted bricks, and found in the truth what he hoped he would be able to say to her (he didn’t take her ring, had no clue what ring had been stolen, he would give anything to see her, to explain).

Based on the angle of sun cutting through the small window, he presumed it was around midday. It was then that the metal-on-metal scraping clunk in the pass-through got him to his feet. Though he had been in jail for less than half a day, Jamie knew what role had been preordained for him. He turned, took three awkward steps backward to the pass-through, slipped his hands through the small opening, and winced as the cuffs slapped closed over his already-bruised wrists.

Two minutes and a long walk down a damp hallway later, the guard deposited Jamie in a sparse room with a desk (an uneven, wobbling thing with one too-short leg), a morning edition of the day’s newspaper (disassembled into various sections and reshuffled together in an uneven, ragged manner), an abused collection of paperback books (though missing their covers and title pages, Jamie could tell that they were the type of classical literature he could quote from memory), a telephone (he could not think of a single person who he wanted to speak with who he knew how to contact; the only person he wanted and needed to speak to was beyond unreachable), and a mismatched set of hand weights on a rubber mat.

“Ye’ve got an hour, Fraser.”

Jamie offered a lame smile and held his breath until the barred door to the room closed.

Seated, he paged aimlessly through a few books, his attention catching only long enough for the titles to register and immediately fall out of his brain.

He did a few bicep curls with the heavier of the two weights, and then turned to the newspaper.

He read a story about a man in London who was sentenced to death after eight bodies were found in his Notting Hill home. He read about a series of science fiction novels being made into a multi-part television program. And then he found what was ostensibly the first page of the newspaper.

His eye was drawn to the headline first (RECOVERED!).

And then the photograph – the ring with its onyx and diamonds.

Claire’s ring.

The photograph did what the mere mention of the ring had not. It brought the mental image of it sitting on that bathroom counter to mind. His heart sank. He had not seen it on her hand since, had not felt the cool metal of it resting heavily on his chest as she slept or watched her wrench it back onto her delicate finger before returning from the camping trip.

He rose and dialed the number without thinking.

And when his sister answered on the third ring, he fought the instinct to weep.

“Jen,” he breathed, all the air evacuating his lungs.

“Mallaichte bas!” Jenny hissed. “I’ve been callin’ ye nonstop. Maggie found a ring at the cabin, and the police called. I tried to–”

“I’m in jail,” he interrupted. “They think I stole it.”

Against the silence of the line, he swallowed, used her Christian name, bowed his head against the wall.

A denial would mean that the ring was there because she had been there. Save the truth (a sordid, torrid tale), there was no good reason for the Queen to have been there (in that damp ramshackle cabin with the tilted porch adjacent to a town that barely warranted a dot on a map of Scotland). And he could not do that to her – to expose her to the shaming of a country (her country).

“Aye,” Jenny confirmed, a whisper. “They think that ye stole it, that ye stashed it at the cabin.”

“Do ye think I stole it?”

His eyes closed as he waited for his sister’s response. For some reason it mattered to him (deeply) that his sister not think him a thief, that he had someone who could hear the truth, not judge him.

“I ken ye are no’ a thief, brathair, which means she was… there… in the cabin. And there’s precisely one reason that I can think of her being there wi’ ye, for the sheets to be mussed in only one bedroom as they were.”

Jamie sank a thumbnail into a sliver of missing mortar between the bricks, watched the surface crumble beneath the slightest pressure.

“I didna steal it, Jen, and she’s in a bad situation if it was there, she canna be runnin’ around wi’ me –”

“What will ye do?” she broke in, knowing in her gut that her brother (the noble, self-sacrificing one who refused to let his niece go without new shoes for the fall or his nephew go without a book to read by the lake) already had a plan. He had called to see if he could fill in a blank, to figure out what had gone sideways and how. And now he had a plan.

“I’m going to tell them that I took it at the state dinner where it…”

A breath. Another. The feeling of a heart cracking, of the nebulous promise of forever evaporating.

“It’s where it started, ye ken. A dinner. I found her, and I…

“Oh, Jamie,” Jenny sighed, her voice taking on the tone he knew his sister reserved for barn kittens and her own bairns. “Ye love her, don’t ye–”

“The ring. I’ll say I took it. That she didna ken.”

And that was that.

He was going to confess.

Hours later, Jamie had penned a lengthy statement about his theft. Idly, he wondered if it could be considered treason when it was property of the Crown. Had he confessed to something more than snagging something shiny? He folded the pages, tucked them into an envelope, and sent them away with the guard to transmit to the court. In the morning, he would see a solicitor and a magistrate. He would try to make this as easy as possible for her (for his Sassenach Queen, his Claire, his everything). His confession would mean there was no statement from her necessary. All that was required would be an official notice from whoever wrote such things that her staff had trusted the wrong man, and that there was no remaining threat to the property of the Crown.

The Crown Equerry would be but a fading memory, an empty position to be filled by some other mildly-competent horse lover.

He was settling onto his back, his legs crossed at the ankles and his hands behind his head, when the hollow crack of a baton sounded down the hall. “They tell me that ye’ve got a visitor, Fraser,” the jail guard said gruffly, plainly disgruntled that his evening of lounging with feet up on a desk had been disrupted. “Some sort of special case, but they dinna tell me anythin’, just that ye’re to come up. Come suit up.”

For the second time that day, his hands were cuffed, and he made his way down the long hall. He was transferred to the custody of two members of the Royal Guard. His heart began a Titanic-like descent to the bottom of the icy ocean of his stomach.

Claire.

It was a pipe dream, he thought, but when he entered the room she was in the corner. Her back was to him and her head tipped back, loosely pinned curls falling to the back of her sweater.

“Uncuff him,” she demanded before turning on her heel, eyes like kindling ready to spark. As one of the guards began to stumble for words, she snapped, “Immediately. I did not stutter.”

“I dinna have the keys, Yer Majesty, I-”

“Find them.” The guards turned to one another. “And you will leave to do so.”

“Ma’am, are ye sure–”

Claire squared her shoulders, crossed her arms over her stomach. “If you do not leave this instant I will have both of your jobs.”

As though connected to one another by a string, both guards nodded and left them. It was only a moment before one was back with the key to free Jamie from the handcuffs.

Claire nodded, raising her chin towards the door until the guard stepped through the threshold.

“And the door. Shut it. Do not enter again unless expressly authorized to enter after knocking by me.”

When the door clicked shut, Claire’s face melted and she took two steps, firmly planting herself against his chest and winding her arms around him. “Oh Christ, Jamie. Are you okay?”

He fought the urge to embrace her, to draw her close and inhale the soft elderflower and bergamot scent that lingered like springtime in the gentle indentation where her shoulder met her neck. He remained limp in her arm, one hand traveling to the back of his neck. He swallowed, made an anemic attempt to pull back from her ferocious embrace. “Ye’re no’ wearin’ the ring that I stole–”

“Do not dare joke right now, Fraser,” she snapped, holding him tighter, kissing him on the jaw. “We are going to come clean. I am going to get you out of here. I have my staff working with the police on it.”

Pulling back, she smoothed a hand over his jaw, tested the stubble just above his chin with her thumb.

“You have no clue how hard it is for even the Queen to get someone out of a Scottish jail. Your kind are brutally stubborn, Fraser.”

He fought the urge to smirk, to agree with her, to joke back that it was what she loved most about him. Humming, he let his nose nudge a curl from her temple, to allow his hands to rest at the small of her back just where her flesh started to swell up into the familiar curve of her arse. “Claire, we canna ‘come clean,’ to use yer words.”

He watched the delicate line of her throat as she swallowed, the gentle lift and fall of her collarbones under the exhalation before she finally said, “What?”

“I canna do that to ye. To make loving me a scandal.”

“Jamie…”

Her voice was tremulous, tears transparent in their threat to rim her lower eyes, to fall down those round cheeks.

Jamie said nothing.

The first tear fell, then the next, and a third, and then her chin trembled as she pursed her lips.

He had expected tears, expected her to cry. He was no fool. He knew that the love she felt for him was infinite in an unbounded, inarticulate way, that the threat of losing that love would devastate her. But he also knew that the love she felt for her country was ancient, a blood right that existed for her long before either of them had existed as an abstract longing in their parents’ eyes, before their parents and their parents’ parents had been conceived or born. He had fought for Queen and country, put his life on the line for it.

“Fraser… stop.”

With the flat of his thumb, he collected tears and wiped them away, fighting the urge to kiss her where the wet tracks made the powder on her cheeks disintegrate.

For her part, Claire felt the whimper building in her guts, fighting to come out so that the world could know that this was her second death of the day, that she was losing everything. Instead, she squared her shoulders, shook her head. “You cannot possibly be ashamed of me, and you cannot possibly think you’re doing me a favor.”

“We are no’ ready to be public–”

“–we would never be ready to be public, Fraser.”

“I’m no’ the type that ye can marry, and I–”

“You are wrong. You are precisely the type that I can marry. I love you.”

“I couldna do this to ye, to subject ye to rumors. That ye carried on an affair, that ye came to that cabin to fuck me. Your reputation would be ruined, and–”

She started to laugh, her body wracking against him as she started to cough. “You don’t love me. Is that it?”

“Don’t be daft,” he muttered, shaking his head as he used a word he had adopted from her vocabulary. “It’s got nothing to do wi’ how much I love ye, Claire.”

“And yet you do not want a life with me, a life for us to make our own?”

“It’s to protect ye, Claire. Ye canna be the leader that we need if the noise of me drowns ye out–”

“You will not even try then? To make a life with me, to try to exist in the world I have to live in. You do not want to fight for us?”

“Ye ken that’s no’ it. I canna make it any clearer for ye, Claire. I canna let ye walk away from yer entire life for me.”

“Oh, you have made it abundantly clear, Fraser.” She straightened the edge of her cardigan, shook her head. She opened her clutch and dabbed carefully at the tears on her cheeks. “You are a coward.”

He pulled back from her, shook his head as he bit down on his lower lip. “Leave, then,” he said, jerking his head toward the door. “If that’s what ye think of me, go! I’ll not hinder ye.”

It was the parting glance that she gave him that finished him off – a once over with defeated eyes, glowing amber and storming with anger, disappointment, heartbreak.

“Goodbye, Fraser,” she whispered as she took her clutch under her arm.

“Claire, I…”

His voice faded.

She was already gone.

#crookedfestivalalmondknight #one quote one shot #HRH #Her Royal Highness AU #jamie x claire #Part XX #;mod kate

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inforapound · 5 years

Text

Bloodmoon Chapter 4

A/N - This chapter is really not where I want it to be. Some of you know I am having problems with my sight. I feel if I don’t just get this posted, my enthusiasm will fizzle altogether. Moodboard by @flowers-in-your-hayr .

Warnings - Violence, explicit sexual content, the historically inaccurate use of the ‘F’ word, Ivar acting like a brat.

Lofn hated being treated differently. Worse, she despised those around her behaving as if she was the same. Welcoming her, smiling, keeping their eyes from wandering to the large black appendages jetting out from her back and towering above of her head. As if they were not there.

She did not feel that around the Lothbrok’s breakfast table though. No one knew how to act or what to say. The atmosphere was tense. Awkward. Sideways glances were exchanged and Ivar’s eyes moved frenetically from person to person, always settling back on her. Sigurd appeared to want to be anywhere but there, Ubbe observed Ivar, observing Lofn and Hvitserk simply ate while Aslaug was already into the mead.

“Lofn, are you comfortable in your room?” Aslaug asked from the end of the table, breaking the strange silence.

“I am, thank you,” Lofn replied looking back to the thick porridge and bowl of apple sauce before her. To allow room for her wings, she sat alone on one long side, the boys across and Ivar at the other end, closest to her. She could feel his eyes on her, constantly.

“How is your pain dear?” Aslaug continued.

Opening her mouth to answer, Ivar cut her off.

“The bed is too small for her. She does not fit.” Lifting his knife from his plate, he pointed toward her wings. “Because of those.”

Closing her eyes, Lofn exhaled wearily before looking back to Aslaug. “I am fine my Queen, truly.”

With a flat smile, Aslaug nodded, her eyes skipping back and forth between Lofn and her youngest son.

“I will be out today,” Lofn spoke up, clearing her throat. “Just…letting you know.”

“Of course, “Aslaug nodded, looking across to Ivar, who began to scowl.

Cocking his head, he stared at Lofn, interrogating her with just his eyes. Ignoring him entirely, she dipped a spoon full of porridge into her apple sauce before taking a bite. With a pinched face, his eyes followed her repetitive movements, dipping her spoon into each bowl before taking a mouth full.

“Lofn, would you like me to accompany you?” Ubbe cut in over the sounds of forks and spoons on plates. “I am quite sure you are capable of going unattended, but I can offer you a ride wherever you are going. With me on horseback or I can arrange for you to ride your own?”

“Ubbe,” Ivar leaned forward, his bright eyes glaring at his brother. “Are you blind or just stupid?” Throwing his gloved hand up, he stopped. “Do not answer. Both,” he quipped. “She has wings. The girl has wings. She does not require a ride from you.” Leaning back in his chair, he kept his eyes on Ubbe.

“Relax Ivar,” Ubbe replied in a calm voice, scrunching his forehead at his brother’s behaviour.

“Actually,” glimpsing at Ivar, Lofn looked across at Ubbe. “I would prefer a ride. I have not lifted my full weight in the air since….” Her head motioned back to Ivar. “I want to go into the hills above the city. Work on getting my strength back.”

“I will take you,” Ivar blurted, straightening, his hand squeezed the armrest of this chair. Looking up to the far end of the table, “Mother!” he called.

Scoffing loudly, Sigurd shook his head, averting his eyes from those around the table. Hvitserk paused, a spoonful of dagmal halfway to his mouth.

Scanning her eyes between her sons, Aslaug lifted her brow. “Ivar will take Lofn in his chariot.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Lofn could see Ivar’s posture soften and he bought his cup to his mouth, looking smug.

“He knows those hills better than anyone and…” Ubbe rolled his eyes. “and…” Aslaug continued, shooting Ubbe a look of warning, “it is the least he can do.”

Opening her mouth to speak, Lofn hesitated, looking back down to her half-eaten breakfast. Feeling confronted, she lifted her cup and took a drink.

“I will have the kitchen slaves prepare a basket with food and ale,” Aslaug smiled, leaning back in her chair, taking a deep drink from her cup.

Glancing up to Ivar, Lofn nearly choked at the size of his priggish grin.

Ivar’s eyes flashed at Lofn before he looked back to Aslaug. “Thank you, Mother. That sounds delightful.”

—

The ride into the hills was, in fact, a true delight for Ivar. A black-haired, ebony feathered beauty stood behind him, arms wrapped around his waist holding tight. His right hand was holding the reigns and his left squeezing hers for assurance that she would not fall as he purposely hit every divot on the path. The sun was shining, the wildflowers dusting the air with a sweet smell and Ivar had a genuine smile. Lofn was scowling, grimacing, as the wind whipped her long hair into her eyes. Flaring her nostrils, she gasped for breath, feeling as though she might suffocate, asphyxiate, on the sandalwood, or some similar body oil that Ivar had obviously, generously, applied before their departure. Sticking out her tongue, she coughed at its strength. What a prince charming she thought, rolling her eyes at the truth of their situation. Ivar, utterly ignorant of her plans for him.

Letting go of his waste and pulling free from his grasp, Lofn braced, holding the sides of the chariot as Ivar slowed to a stop. Swiveling, he opened his mouth to speak but stopped seeing that she was already off and making her way through the long grass toward a large boulder overlooking the harbour.

Lowering himself to sit at the back of the chariot, he dropped his legs off the end and watched. Climbing onto the rock, she stretched her arms out to either side, wincing at the pain in her chest. Unfolding her broad wings, she opened and stretched them wide on either side, lifting her pale face to the warm sun, and closing her eyes. At such an angle, Ivar could not tell whether she was rigid with pain or savouring the feeling of the sun’s warmth against her skin.

Pumping her wings in fast, downward strokes, her feet lifted from the rock and she drifted slowly down to the grass below. Her large black wings, looking like a sail catching the wind. Over and over and over Lofn repeated this simple exercise, climbing to the top of the boulder and floating to the ground.

Observing every detail of her wings and movements, he could not seem to pull his eyes from her pretty face and pitch-black hair. How her lips pressed together in concentration and the way her dress fitted her body, showing the lines of her figure. Scrunching his brow, he was surprised at her perseverance when it was obvious by her expression she was hurting.

Whistling to her, her head whipped back, looking over her shoulder to Ivar holding the basket up in one hand. Nodding, she straightened and smoothed the skirt of her dress before walking over, clearly exhausted as her hand clutched her sore shoulder.

“I am ready to return to the hall,” she announced, running her hand up and down her tender arm.

“I have not yet asked you any questions." Lowering his chin, he shot her an annoyed look. “I want to know what you did that day? Making everyone still, like they were made of stone.”

“I do not have to answer your questions,” she scoffed.

Sighing loudly, he dropped down from the chariot to the grass and pulled his legs to one side. “Sit and eat. I will bring you back here tomorrow. You can answer me then.”

She was too tired to object or appreciate the sight of Ivar unfolding a large linen cloth from the basket. Carefully he unpacked and placed bread and cheese and meat down with two cups and a corked jug of ale.

“I am not interested in eating,”

Stopping, he looked up, “You do not want to disappoint my mother by ignoring this lunch she organized.” Cocking his head to one side, he raised his brow in questions. “Or, do you?”

With a glare, she pulled her wings tight behind her and lowered to the grass to sit. Again her fingers worked to pull and smooth the long fabric of her dress.

“You are fidgeting,” Ivar said flatly as he hastily poured mead into a cup and held it out to her.

“I will never be comfortable in a dress.” Grabbing the drink, she drank quickly, nearly emptying it.

They ate in silence; Ivar watching her closely as she looked everywhere else, settling her sights on a still raven perched high on a ledge above them.

Finishing her food and cup of ale, she fluttered her lashes at him. “Satisfied?”

“Until tomorrow..," he replied. "I am meeting with the heads of the arriving armies after first meal. I will bring you up following.

Lofn did not respond.

“Yes?” he pressed.

Nodding, she looked down at the small blue wildflower she twirled between her fingers.

“We will talk then.”

She glanced back up to him but said nothing.

The following day proved like the first. The third and fourth too. The rocks got larger and soon Lofn was not only lowering herself down but flying up to ledges and cliffs with only moderate discomfort. At some point on day five, Ivar realized, Lofn’s prickly defense softened after a length of time when he had not probed her for answers. On day eight, she even smiled while flying high in the air, soaring above the tops of the trees. Keeping her arms at her sides and looking straight ahead, she dove down toward the earth, tilting up within feet of the lake and running her fingers across the surface. Water sprayed up, fanning on either side, sparkling as it caught the sunlight. She was ecstatic. Giggling as she zipped over Ivar who whipped his head in every direction, beaming, as he tracked her sharp movements and agile form. He was mesmerized.

That afternoon, the atmosphere felt different. There was a lightness, a playfulness that had never been present. They were having fun.

Sitting on the top of the boulder, Lofn watched the trading ships make their way into the bay and Ivar sat below, leaning casually against the rock, legs stretched straight with his eyes closed, savouring both the day and her company.

“Lofn?”

“Ivar?”

“Can I touch your wings?” Turning, he looked up to her, squinting from the sun which sat high above. The brightness shining behind illuminated the line around her dark wings and shadowed face. The brightness was suddenly shielded allowing him to open his eyes fully and look at her. Her left wing was peaked high, shading him from the direct light. It was not a large smile, but Ivar could see her lips lift with amusement.

“What is so funny?” he asked chuckling softly.

“No one has ever asked me that before.”

Sliding off the rock, she turned to face him and knelt beside his outstretched legs. Lifting her wings, she leaned forward and expanded them in his direction, bringing the tips together. The end feathers touched the rounded sides of the large boulder, creating a soft, feathered chambre around him. Her expression sobered, fascinated watching Ivar’s reaction. His lips were parted and his eyes were wide as he scanned the dark feathers of the enclosure. Studying the layers and layers of soft black that shone iridescent in the sunlight; a purple and blue sheen edged the dark ebony of each individual feather. Looking back to her face, their eyes locked and he let out a shaky breath, noticing the skin of her face. Even it was luminous in the direct sun, shining like it had been dusted with shavings of brilliant quartz. Bringing his hand up, he lightly ran his rough finger down her refined cheek before dropping it further to skim over the inside of her wing. He smiled, feeling how the soft cover concealed the seemingly flexible bones beneath.

“It is beautiful,” he whispered, his eyes shooting back to hers as he cleared his throat. A flash of unease flitting across his face. “Do you tire from holding them open like this?” he asked, steadying his voice.

“Not particularly. It is hard to describe.” She looked down to his hand now resting on his thigh. “I suppose it would be similar to expanding long webbed fingers. The bones are flexible but strong.”

Pulled her wings back to her sides, she ruffled them, before folding them back to rest behind her.

“Who sent you Lofn?” He asked, his voice relaxed.

“You are too intelligent for that question,” she blinked, watching his expression still as his mind connected his thoughts.

“Odin,” he uttered looking down at his crossed legs. “To avenge my father.” He brought his eyes back up to hers.

“To help the true heir avenge him, yes,” she nodded subtly.

“That is me," he said, his voice now strange; a mixture of surprise and defense.

“Well, it is not Sigurd,” she looked up, eyeing the black raven still resting high above.

Lost in thought, Ivar lowered his eyes, watching her fingers softly comb through the dry grass.

“Are you a Valkyrie?” he looked up.

Shaking her head, she tucked the loose wisps of hair behind her ear. “And never will be.”

“This is a disappointment?” his forehead scrunched in question.

“To be a Valkyrie is a great honour. A powerful destiny.” She paused licking her lower lip. “My mother was Svala, was one of the most famous Valkyries of all.”

Listening to her every word, Ivar's eyes stayed focussed on her pale lips as she spoke.

“She was banished by Odin for killing a magical shieldmaiden named Unn. Unn was favoured,” Lofn chuckled, but her face showed her sorrow. “It was said that Thor was in love with her. But Unn killed my father Helgi, a mortal, in battle. So…. my mother killed her. Drove a sword right through her chest and then removed both her heart and her head in order to stop her magic. For good.” Exhaling loudly, she looked down to the grass between her fingers. “Thor was enraged, and I was in my mother’s womb when it happened.” She looked back up, locking eyes with him. “I never met my father," she shook her head softly. "To smooth Thor’s anger, the All Father banished my mother to the top of one of the highest mountains. She was forced to live out her life within a burning round of fire. I was taken away right after being born and raised by other angels in service. I never knew my parents, either of them.”

Ivar listened, studying her face and emotion around her eyes.

“The blood of my banished mother that pumps in my veins prevents me from becoming Valkyrie. Ever. I will never be given that power and wisdom. Never be able to sour above the battlefields, choosing who is ready and who is not. Who is worthy and who is not.” She smiled sadly.

“How do I know you are not something else?” he asked quietly, playfulness back in his eyes. “To fool me?” he smiled. “Secretly choosing to end my life.” His smile widened, showing his perfect, straight teeth.

She could not help but smile in return. “Have you heard me whisper your name in your ear?”

“No.”

Lowering her chin, she eyed him from under her brow. “Then I have chosen you for nothing.”

—

The sun continued to shift in the sky, dampening the light in the clearing.

“It is late,” Lofn uttered glancing up at the fading sun.

Standing, she stretched her injured shoulder, her wings relaxed at her back. Nodding, Ivar’s eyes lingered on her face before he rolled onto his front and crawled to the chariot. Pulling himself up, he stood turning to watch Lofn approach, the picnic basket hanging from one of her arms. Taking the basket from her outstretched hand, Ivar offered his other to help her in. Clutching his hand, she hopped into the chariot, losing her footing as Ivar yanked her forward. Hitting her chest against his, he wrapped his arm tight around her waist and slammed his mouth to hers. His eyes were closed, and his lips pressed hard. Pulling her head back, she brought her hand up and slapped him, cracking her palm across his cheek. Stunned, he blinked, his arm dropping from her waist and Lofn watched his face morph from shock, to shame before his brows pinched and his eyes came alive with anger.

With her breath held, Lofn took a step back just as Ivar slammed the butt of his hand into her chest. Knocking the wind from her lungs, she fell backward, tumbling from the chariot onto the hard ground. A muffled cry escaped her mouth as she rolled onto her sore side, painfully pulling her wings out from under her. She gasped loudly, unable to inhale, feeling as though she could not take a breath.

“You appear healed,” he sneered. “You need no ride from me,” Turning away, he roared at his horse to go, snapping the leather reigns.

Heated pricked the skin of Lofn’s neck and cheeks as the muscles in her chest eased, allowing her to take a shallow breath. Scowling, she gritted her teeth and watched the back of Ivar’s head disappear as he made his way down the rough path. A shrill kaaw caused her to snap her head up, shooting the black raven an enraged glare.

“Do not scold me,” she shouted. “This will work! He is destined for the crown.” Coughing roughly, she cleared her throat and spat into the grass. “I will make it so,” she muttered, as she looked toward the empty path.

@flowers-in-your-hayr @naaladareia @youbloodymadgenius @medievalfangirl @yanii-the-hippie @tephi101 @lol-haha-joke @fangirl-nonsense @thelastemzy @captstefanbrandt @whenimaunicorn @readsalot73 @geekandbooknerd

#ivar the boneless #ivar #ivar lothbrok #ivar and lofn #ivar and angel #Bloodmoon #ivar fic #vikings fic #eventual smut #eventual romance #ivar romance #strange ending #bratty ivar #tephi's 800 followers writing challenge

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huyosumi · 6 years

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The Betrayal of Larry

The Betrayal of Larry by Huyosumi, all characters belong to Nintendo

(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kbamoPhIanc) (suggested listening)

The moon hung high over the Koopa kingdom as Bowser, the seven Koopalings, and countless goombas and koopa troopers returned from yet another failed attempt to capture and imprison Princess Peach of the Toadstool kingdom. The solemn group marched through their charred field of dying crops and long dead remnants of grass with a thick smoky miasma that could be mistaken as clouds above them. Silently, with only low growls and grumbles they made their way to the castle, Bowser’s home. Though he had commissioned hundreds of “castles” elsewhere, they were only used as dungeons for Princess Peach and complicated obstacles to deter her champion. However, this one was his home.

As they reached the castle, the Koopa foot soldiers dispersed around the city, limping back to their rickety shacks and shoddy huts full of holes patched with rotten wood. Many koopa families waited at their collapsed doorsteps for relatives who would never return. A loud wail suddenly pierced the heavy silence, Bowser Jr had heard his father’s arrival and quickly made it know that he wanted his bottle. Bowser hurried his minion to open the poorly bolted door and rushed inside to his son.

The seven Koopalings entered afterward, they were lucky enough to still be considered Bowser’s generals, but something had been missing. Roy entered first, the tallest and oldest of the group. He kept his arms crossed and his sunglasses over his eyes. Next was Morton Jr., the second oldest, and the loudmouth of the group. But he didn’t say a word, no encouragement for next time's scheme, no boasting about how he lasted the longest when going toe to toe with the champion of the mushroom kingdom, and definitely no complaints about the state of their homelife. Behind Morton in both position and age was Ludwig, the self proclaimed genius of the koopalings. But even the genius was too exhausted to boast. Larry koopa, with his swept back, upstanding mane of blue hair was the only one to pause and look back. He watched as a family of koopa troopers welcomed back their father, but were torn at the fact that their uncle was lost and would never return. Wendy, the retired fashion queen of castle Koopa, paused as well, but she did not see what her brother saw. She scoffed at the rags that the koopa’s wore, although the cheap makeup and false eyelashes she had to now settle for had humbled her, slightly. Behind her were the twins, Iggy and Lemmy, sometimes called Hip and Hop, to Iggy’s annoyance. While his thoughts were usually crowded with unseen voices and hair brained schemes, Iggy was now more worried about his smaller twin who lay unconscious on his back. Lenny, the smallest and most “innocent” of the koopalings had lost his most precious item, a large ball he used to match the height of his siblings that he could somehow balance on perfectly. In years past, his ball was frequently popped by the mushroom champion, and Bowser would simply find him a new one, but this was his last one. They all knew that Iggy would never get another ball from the one they once called “King Dad”.

They koopa kids piled in their shared bedroom, at one point they did have their own rooms, but walls needed to be knocked down to give Bower Jr a new playroom. They sat silently on their bed, Ludwig curled under the sheets and tried to sleep, Wendy tried to apply makeup via a broken mirror shard, Iggy tried to wake his inert twin. Larry stared out at the surrounding torn village from their dungeon home.

“Lenny’s not getting a new ball, ya know” Larry’s feeble voice broke the silence, the others jerked as if a bullet bill had shot off. They replied by looking down at the floor, or pretending to sleep. Larry let his words linger in the silence. Bowser Jr’s wailing destroyed the ambiance and shook the room. That was the final straw. Larry looked down at the koopa home who lost an uncle, then at Lenny, still blacked out like an angry sun after meeting the hero of the mushroom kingdom.

“What will we do if Lenny doesn’t wake up, huh?!” Larry was screaming now, as loud as the tears would allow him to. Lenny began to stir and soon, slowly asked when dinner was.

“See, he’s alright Larry,” said Wendy. “Now shut your trap and go to sleep.” She hopped down from her makeshift vanity and crawled into the giant bed with her brothers. Larry agreed for now, the crying koopa lamenting his fallen brother still lingered on his mind.

The next morning, the koopa kids ate their favorite dish in the unused kitchen of Bowser’s castle, Stone porridge, made from the shattered pieces of over thumped Thromps and peppered with dried piranha plant leaves, it was Wendy’s specialty. A koopa shyly entered the kitchen while they ate, they barely noticed it’s arrival, except for Larry.

“K...K...King Bowser wants to see all of you in the throne room,” the koopa stuttered. Larry narrowed his large eyes and looked at his siblings who hadn't heard the message. “Roy, hey, Roy, Bowser wants to see us, tell ‘em,” Larry knew only his oldest brother’s voice could reach the rest. Roy uncrossed his arms and the others froze.

“King Dad wants up,” he said in a low but monotone voice. The koopalings dropped everything and scurried out the door.

The children listened patiently as their leader Bower spun a web and plots and schemes to capture the Princess of the mushroom kingdom while he fed Bowser Jr. on his lap. The immense turtle ignored the magi-koopa at his side who constantly reminded him that it was out of their budget. While Bowser paused to consider what he’d have to give up to make his plan work, Larry spoke in a quiet voice.

“Lenny needs a new ball…” Larry expected his words to fall upon the deafest of ears but Bowser Jr. had stopped complaining long enough for the small koopa child’s pleas to be heard by all.

Bowser paused, glaring down the seven children as if he didn’t know who they were. He thought for a long minute, dumbstruck and confounded. The magi-koopa spoke up the break the silence.

“Lenny is the tiny one, sir.” Bowser growled what could be considered a harsh “I knew that!” and like that, issue was resolved. Bowser continued to rant about his next unaffordable plan while Larry glanced at balless Lenny. The tiny koopa tried his best not to cry, by sucking his clawed thumb. Larry expected his twin Iggy to stop him, or even Morton who teased his baby brother, but they let him suck away this time. For a long time Bowser spoke, completely forgetting that the children were even standing there. Lenny never got a new ball, and the plan was too expensive to even attempt.

Larry stared out at the wasteland that connected the other kingdoms. Many times he, his brethren and armies of underlings marched those treacherous lands or flew over them lead by Bowser. This time he’d brave them alone. Larry heard his younger sister’s heels clop towards him.

“Whatcha doin’, Cheatsy?” she smiled, playfully grabbing his hair. He hated that name, they all had nicknames that Bowser began to use instead of their real names.

“I’m...leaving, Kootie Pie.” Larry said in a low voice. Normally she’d pull his hair harder for using that name, but she froze, and looked out at the wilds beyond the kingdom.

“Out there?” She said with her slight accent. “But you’re just a kid, you can’t survive out there!”

“Bowser’s forgotten about us, Wendy. We’re not…” Larry choked on the words but managed to fight the ball in his throat.” We’re not his children anymore!”

“But dad… he…”

“Ever since Bowser Jr. was born he’s kicked us to the corner! He’s not our dad and he never was!”

“That’s not true!” Wendy screamed, remembering how she was Bower’s little Kootie Pie and how he pampered her the most, and how true Larry was. She beat his chest and wailed but despite her tantrum, Larry’s mind had been set. He grabbed her claw before she could strike him again, and for the first time, he held his little sister lovingly, squeezing her even though the spikes in her shell grazed his arms.

“Goodbye Kootie.”

Larry left his home that day, never to see his family again. He looked back only once to see that Iggy and Lenny came to the castle gates to see why Wendy was screaming. He saw their dumbstruck faces and wondered if he was doing the right thing. But they remained still, growing smaller as he continued to walk away. Soon the sounds of Wendy’s cried were muffled by the behind the moldy wooden doors.

#super mario fanfic #the betrayal of larry #koopas #larry koopa #bowser #bowser jr #wendy o koopa #lenny koopa #story #nintendo

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snushthings · 7 years

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Missing You (Part 2)

Missing You, Part Two Pairing: KG3 x Reader Warning(s): Angst, Flashbacks to past abuse, Hamiltime, pregnancy Word Count: 1883

A/N: Here’s part two! This ended up being a lot longer than intended. Enjoy! ________________

Life in the Colonies was interesting, to say the least. Your parents were both hardcore Revolutionaries. They had dragged you overseas with them and in turn, had married you off to a financially stable man. A lawyer named Simon Morris. You had only met him a few times before his proposal, and he was all smiles when it came to you. You didn’t find out how bad Simon was until the Honeymoon. Simon wasn’t a good man behind closed doors. In public, he was everyone’s friend. A charmer. Yet, in the privacy of your new home, he was the worst. He would beat you, but only leave marks in places that were easily covered. You were no longer (Y/N) (Y/L/N). You were (Y/N) Morris. You were his property. After the wedding, you had moved from your family’s residence in South Carolina, to New York with him. City life was different up there; for it seemed to be the center of the Revolution.

Your life wasn’t the same since the wedding. Simon was preparing to go fight in the war (“Good, let him die” You’d think to yourself.) and had been pointedly trying to get you pregnant before he left. If he wasn’t working, he was between your legs. Your first time was terrible, but you couldn’t say anything or complain. Simon would lie to his coworkers. “I love my wife.” You knew those words held no meaning in his heart.

Love wasn’t something you were familiar with anymore. You had attempted to learn to love this man that you were doomed to spend forever with, but it was useless. The moments you got alone were few, but you relished in them when they came. When blessed with the silence, your thoughts wandered to George. Oh how you missed him. The last letter, and all letters you have received from him, were safely tucked away under a loose floorboard in the unused nursery. Simon had made all the preparations for a child, but you had yet to conceive. A child was something you had wanted, yes. But with the man you truly loved: George.

The letters themselves were worn from being folded and unfolded again and again, repeatedly being read. Some were tearstained from the times you cried. Others- the oldest letters- were faded, nearly unreadable. Every now and then you thought about the letter you meant to send in reply to the last one George had sent you. It was a painful memory in your head.

You sat down that day, quill in hand. It took you a while to start writing, but when you did, it seemed to flow naturally; despite the upsetting news you had to bear.

“Dearest Georgie,

It has been some time since I have written you last, my friend.. I am sorry to say, but this is not a letter meant to make you smile. I am married now, George. My husband is named Simon, and he will treat me right. Both my mother and father approve of him, but I want to let you know that my heart still belongs to you. I lo-”

You hadn’t written anymore than that before the paper was ripped from in front of you. Simon clutched it in a tight fist. The expression of rage was clear on his face, and you felt yourself shrink into the chair. You had opened your mouth to speak but all that escaped was a scream as he angrily threw the desk to the side in a fit of anger. His hand came for your throat next, and he lifted you into the air. You desperately clawed at his hand. “Who in the hell do you think you’re writin’ to, darlin’?”

Simon spat in your face and threw you to the ground with as much force as he could muster. Disoriented, you grappled for something to support yourself with, and only managed to grab the leg of the bedframe before his boot swung into view for a split second before colliding hard against your chest.

Tears sprung to your eyes as he repeated his attack twice before tearing the letter into pieces and throwing it into the fire that warmed the room. You couldn’t do anything but watch as what would’ve been your confession burned to ash in the flames.

That was only the beginning of your abuse. It worsened greatly the next time you had attempted to write George. You got as far as having the envelope sealed and ready to be sent out when Simon had discovered it. He burned it, and beat you. He choked you hard enough to make you black out. You awoke a while later on the floor with blood in your mouth.

After that night, you made no further attempts to write him. Any courage you might’ve had was gone. All that was left was a shy, shell of a woman.

Simon did what he wanted with you, and left you with nobody to confide in about your abuse. When he finally left for the war, you wept. For the first time in a year, you would be away from him. Your joy didn’t last for long, though. When the symptoms of pregnancy hit you, you felt your newly regained confidence shatter once more. You had no desire to bear Simon’s child, yet you already were attached to it. You decided that this child will be named George (if it was a boy, of course). And you decided that George would never end up like his father.

It was 6 months into your pregnancy when you got a letter addressed to you. When the maid brought it in, you were confused. You never got mail. Simon would always take the mail from the maid and to his study. Surely he would’ve instructed the maids to continue this process?

The letter itself brought tears to your eyes. Not because you were experiencing mood swings, but because of the way your information was printed on the front. The handwriting was painstakingly familiar. You retreated to the nursery to read it.

At the first words, you started sobbing. After all this time, George hadn’t forgotten about you! You held the letter to your chest, and sobbed.

You were in the nursery for hours. Crying. Bawling. Some were happy tears, others were tears of anguish. You longed to be in his arms. You longed to walk in the gardens with him again. You longed to feel his lips on the back of your hand as he asked you to dance. You longed to feel his breath on your neck as he hugged you close.

The sun had crept below the horizon when you finally folded the precious letter away and emerged from the nursery. You were smiling to yourself, giddy on the very thought that someone out there loved you. That smile quickly faltered as you felt your baby kick you hard. This wasn’t George’s baby. This wasn’t a baby conceived out of love. This child was created purely so the family name wouldn’t disappear. You loved your unborn child, yes, but it was a painful reminder of things you’d rather forget.

It was a last minute decision to go back home to your parents. You packed up what little you had into a suitcase, and made a point of trashing Simon’s office before leaving. George’s letters were in a protective box, which you held on your lap the whole journey home. You brought your favorite maid with you; as she was the only one who sympathized with you about your treatment. You didn’t want her to face Simon’s wrath.

She was a pretty young girl, no older than Seventeen. Her name was Louanne, and you saw her as the younger sister you never had. She loved talking to you and your unborn child, and did so frequently as you traveled.

“Miss (Y/N)?” You looked at her quizzically, cocking your head a bit.

“What is it, Louanne? Something wrong?” She shook her head, and cast her pretty brown eyes downward to the carriage floor. “Do you think I’ll ever find love, Ma’am?”

Slightly taken aback by her question, you blinked. “Why of course, Louanne. Everyone gets their chance at love. And I’m sure that whoever captures your heart will love and treat you like a queen.” You smiled and touched her cheek, which made her smile brightly in return. “Thanks Ma’am.”

“You’re welcome, Louanne.” You journeyed on in complete silence until you stopped for the night in a small inn. The price for a room was cheap, so you managed to get a room for your carriage driver as well. Louanne shared your room, and helped you dress for the night. She had insisted on sleeping in the lone chair but you insisted she take the left side of the bed. You actually slept well that night. The looming thought of Simon’s return was a whisper in your mind that night. For the first time since he left, you got a solid sleep. Even your unborn child seemed to settle into rest for the night.

When morning came, you felt rested for the first time in 6 months. Louanne helped dress you and you joined her for breakfast. Warm porridge and various fruits. You ate quite a bit, as your child within begged for more and more and more. You made sure Louanne ate her fill, smiling as she chatted idly with you and your breakfast guests. When you had eaten your fill, you decided it was time to leave.

After chaste goodbyes, you piled back into your carriage and departed. The rest of the journey was like this. You would travel till the sun had set, take rest in an inn for the night, and leave after a quick breakfast. During your travels, you got closer to Louanne. You had convinced her to drop the formalities. “(Y/N) will do just fine, Louanne.”

She was reluctant to address you so informally, but you insisted. By the time you pulled in front of your family’s grand estate, you and Louanne were best friends.

As you exited the carriage, your mother greeted you with open arms. The hug was awkward with your heavily swollen stomach, but it was welcomed. As she led you inside, it was explained that your father had joined the Revolution. You bit the inside of your cheek.

“Thats wonderful, Mother..” You spoke softly, offering her a gentle smile as Louanne carried your luggage inside. The protective box holding George’s letters was held tightly to your chest. She said nothing but ushered you to your new room.

“I’ll let you get settled, (Y/N)..” Your mother smiled as she kissed your cheek and made her way out of your room. “You’ve had a long journey.”

You almost told her to wait- opening your mouth as if to speak, but closing it instead and offering a simple “Thanks”. You’d deal with everything else in the morning. The letters were brought out and read once more before you changed into your nightclothes and slipped under the sheets. Thoughts of George swarmed your dreams that night, and you knew that you had to go back to him.

All you had to do was tell your mother. Easy, right?

#missing you #kg3 x reader #kg3 hamilton #king george x reader #king george hamilton #hamilton imagine #hamilton x reader

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rogerlad · 5 years

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The City of Rose & Sun: Part Eight

A/N: Okay so earlier than expected, but this one only totals out to three pages long. One of the shorter ‘chapters’ in this series. I really want to make parts nine and ten longer, since I feel I’ve been cheating you all a bit on a juicy story. Plus, this story is almost at it’s end, which makes me very sad, but all good things, as we know, do end. Please enjoy, leave feedback! I answer to everyone. Cheers x

Tag List: @emmieliabedelia @madamnouiselle @laubluered@rogertaylorsblondhair @2ptonpt @kat-to-the-rina @hayley8089 @oklahania@soberandfurious @ughjaims @rogertaylor-xx @fortunately-strange-queen@swingspideyswing @magicwithaknife @scoreofvolunteers @i-got-no-rhythm@i-am-sarah @herewegoagainniall

The City of Rose & Sun: Part Eight

“Brian! You son of a bitch!” Roger shouted, whipping the blood away from his nose. He scrambled to his feet quickly, winding up to throw a punch, but John intercepted.

“I’m not going to let you two behave like animals.” He raised his voice and Brian and Rog.

“Deacy. Move.” Brian growled. You had just been standing there, crying, unable to truly process what was happening. You spotted Freddie, coming out of the bar with the girl Hannah, you had met earlier.

“Brian?” The girl quietly asked. You watched as Brian’s features softened, in full realization at what he had done. He quickly ran a hand through his hair.

“Hannah? I’m sorry, I just-Come on let’s go back inside.” He said, placing an arm around the girl’s shoulder. You watched as the walked back into the noisy pub. Jealousy danced through you. How could he? You were outraged. He was your best friend and he just shrugged you off for some girl he’d just met.

“I HATE this fucking place!” You shouted, causing the remaining boys to stare at you in confusion. “I hate this country! I hate this bloody bar! I hate this stupid band! And most of all I hate you Roger!” You stormed off towards the hotel.

“Slow down Rose. I was a boxer, not a track star.” Freddie said, catching up to you. You paced yourself.

“I-He-That. Pig.” You said under your breath, whipping tears away from your eyes.

“You’re sure he kissed her?” Freddie asked. You looked at him in disbelief.

“Of course he did! I saw him!” You shouted at the man, who widened his eyes. It was never in your nature to yell, so you understood his shock.

“Okay, okay. C’mon dear, let’s go back to the hotel.”

After you shoved your belongings back into your suitcase in a furry, Freddie walked with you to the third floor. He had tried to suggest to you that, maybe you hadn’t saw what you thought you had, but you were stubborn.

“I’m not blind Fred.” You said softly. Stopping outside of the room marked “17″. You slid against the door, and waited for Brian’s return. Freddie, slumped down beside you.

“I know you’re not.” He gave you a half smile. “But, I’ve never seen Roger so mad over a girl before and I just think that something isn’t adding up here.” As much as you wanted to agree with Freddie, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You had known Roger for a couple years now, and you knew exactly how he was with women. You wished you had been surprised by his actions this evening.

“I really don’t want to talk about it anymore.” You sighed, stretching your legs out before you. “Can we talk about something else? Anything. Cats?” You offered, smiling slightly. Freddie laughed before going on a tangent about each of his furred friends.

“Rose?” Brian’s voice was soft, as he knelt before you. “Wake up love.” You opened your eyes slowly, not realizing you had fallen asleep waiting for him.

“I bored her to death with my cat stories.” Freddie joked, standing behind Brian. “Goodnight, petal. Brian.” He said, as he headed off for his own bed, probably thankful for Brian’s return.

“How could you just leave me?” You asked once inside Brian’s room. Your voice was soft. Brian sat next to you on the bed.

“I just would have said something I regretted. I wanted nothing more than to make sure you were okay, but I also probably would have killed Roger.” He tried to laugh to lighten the mood, but you weren’t budging.

“You’re my best friend, and you abandoned me for that Hannah girl.” You wanted to cry, but you honestly didn’t think you could shed one more tear.

“I like her...” He trailed off. You knew it wasn’t fair to use her against him. Brian rarely took interest in anyone on the road, and you had seen how happy she made him in such a short time.

“I’m sorry.” You said, sheepishly. He widened his eyes at you.

“What on earth are you apologizing for?” Brian said, pulling you into his side. “If anyone should apologize it should be-” A knock at the door interrupted him.

“Speak of the devil?” You asked, as Brian stood to answer. He pulled back the door, but to your surprise no one was there.

“Oh.” Brian said, bending over. You walked over to the door curious as to what was going on.

“What is it?” You asked. Brian turned around holding a vase filled with twelve roses. A card stuck out the top, and you immediately recognized Roger’s hand writing.

“Read it.” Brian said. You plucked the small card and read it out loud.

“My dearest Rosie, out of all these roses’ you are still my favorite one.”

Sunlight danced across your face as Brian drew back the window curtains. You groaned and rolled over. You spotted the vase of roses sitting on your bedside table. You groaned again, rolling back towards the sunlight.

“We have to eat breakfast, Rose.” Brian said, sitting at the edge of your bed.

“I don’t want to.” You pulled the covers over your head, acting like a child. Brian tugged them back down, you glared at him.

“Can’t avoid him forever.” Brian stated. You had stayed cooped up in the hotel room for an entire day. Forcing Brian to bring you food from the buffet. You had ignored his previous pleads to come down and face Roger.

“You owe it to him, to hear his side of the story.” Brian said, now grabbing clothes for you out of your suitcase.

“I owe him shit.” You grumbled. Apparently Brian had confronted the living devil, and he spewed him some story of how the girl had thrown herself onto him.

“Rosanna, I’m not going to ask you again. Get up.” Brian’s tone shifted, and you found yourself sliding out of the bed.

“I don’t like you.” You said, grabbing the clothes from your friend.

“Don’t have to.” He retorted, tugging a sweater over his head. You went into the bathroom to change and get ready for the day. You’d be damned to let Rog see you presented, as anything less than beautiful. You effortlessly did your makeup, and tied your hair into a high ponytail. When you wore your hair up, it always sharpened your cheek bones. You slid on your dangerously tight black jeans, and pulled over a white V-neck shirt. You looked good.

“About time.” Brian said, impatiently leaning against the door. You rolled your eyes at him, and followed him down the stairs, to the dinning lounge.

Your heart stopped when you saw him there, spooning his porridge sadly. His eyes were red and puffed. Your heart broke for him. Only for a second. You stood tall and walked toward the table, sitting next to Fred. Directly across from Roger.

“Good morning Freddie. John. Piece of shit.” You smiled, happily, before diving into your waffles. John nearly choked on his tea. Roger seemed to sink lower into his chair, not bothering to look up. Brian sighed in disappointment.

“Well good morning to you too my dear, why so cheery?” Freddie asked, clearly amused at the new side of you.

“Just, a beautiful day.” You replied, voice heavy with sarcasm.

“Will you be coming to our rehearsal this afternoon?” Fred asked, facing you fully. You thought about it for a moment.

“I’d like that. Be nice to see if there are any men around I can throw myself at.” You smiled back at him. Roger excused himself from the table.

“Think you could stop acting like a twat and go after him now?” Brian asked sternly, crossing his arms over his chest. You locked your eyes with him for a moment, before sighing. You knew he was serious, and you didn’t want another lecture on the situation at hand. You set your fork down, and headed to the lobby.

He was already on the second flight of stairs when you saw him. “Roger!” You called up at him. He looked down at you, but continued to walk up. You cursed Brian under your breath and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. When you reached the second floor, Roger was fumbling with his room key.

“Would you stop?” You asked, panting now, as you walked towards him.

“Why are you chasing after me when I’m just a piece of shit.” He hissed at you, finally getting his door open. You stepped in front of him.

“I don’t want to be here, believe me, but my best friend seems to have this idea in his mind that I owe you a chance to explain yourself.” You snorted. The hurt on his face hadn’t let up. You looked down and back up into his swollen eyes. It’s time to drop the act, Rose. You told yourself.

“Roger, you broke my heart.” You said softly, biting your lip.

“Go.” Roger weakly said, nodding his head in the direction of his room. You walked in, and sat on his bed. He knelt down in front of you, placing his hands on your knees. You had missed him touching you. “Rose. She kissed me, now listen I know you don’t believe it but it’s true. She followed me around all night, you can ask any of the lads. They saw. I told her a hundred times I wasn’t interested in the likes of her, and I was waiting for you. When I saw you coming, I told her that you were my girl. Thats when-That’s when she...kissed me.” He hung his head. You had never in your life seen him so broken. A large part of you wanted nothing more than to storm off, and never see him again, but somehow you believed him; If Brian had believed him, it was reason enough for you to as well.

“Okay.” You whispered, touching his cheek with your hand. He looked at you, shocked. It was as if he had expected you to walk out of his life, and never look back.

“You believe me?” He was flabbergasted.

“Should I have a reason not to?” You asked, smiling softly. He shook his head vigorously.

“No, no!” He exclaimed moving his hands from your knees to your waist.

“Am I still your favorite Rose?” You questioned.

“Always.” He smiled, before reaching up and kissing you.

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