w a n d e r e s s

“He will do whatever he needs to do to keep his people and innocents safe. Sometimes morality is crossed. Sometimes he’ll lose himself. But, if at the end of the day, everyone he loves is alive, none of it matters.”

Mark Jenkin

Everyone knew about Princess Clarke. They knew she wasn’t the sort of royalty who did well behind the walls of the castle. There had even been rumors that she had escaped, shedding those meant to watch her, all to simply be with her people. Except, she was never just doing that. She would dress like common folk, eat their food, drink their water, and act as if there were no responsibilities that she might have to deal with. Of course, all of those were rumors, and if there was one thing Bellamy knew to avoid, it was the gossip around the castle. Everyone, even with their heavy workloads, always had time to discuss the Queen and her wild daughter.

It shouldn’t have surprised Bellamy then when Kane called his name and reassigned him from his post. ‘Keep an eye on the Princess, Blake. It’s too dangerous for her to be sneaking out every night. I’m assigning you with Miller and Green. Hopefully between the three of you, you can figure something out.’ He memorized the order, his face trying to hide his complete lack of enthusiasm. Being someone’s babysitter had never seemed like his idea of fun. But an order was an order, and at least he had two friends that would be there along side him. The only thing to do now was properly introduce himself. Which, in most cases involving Bellamy, was usually far more dramatic than it had any right to be. 

“I’ll talk to her first. Probably better to speak one-on-one than to ambush her, yeah?” Bellamy suggested, staring at his friends with an expression that didn’t leave much room for a debate.

“Whatever you say, Bellamy,” Monty said, already rolling his eyes. Miller managing to keep a straight face.

Bellamy knocked on her door, the hilt of his sword returning the knock to his chain mail as he felt pressure not only in his stomach but in his throat. Suddenly he remembered that this would be the first time he spoke to a royal. The first time he’d work with the face to face. Sure, they had walked by before, their elegant gowns and proud posture practically floating by him with little notice. But this time he would be with the Princess day and night. Her life was now his life. Even with the chain mail on, he could feel his heart threatening to burst through. This sort of assignment could change his life. Could change Octavia’s life. No more worrying about money, or where they’d be sleeping next. The pressure was enormous.

Failure couldn’t be an option then. Even if the princess refused to listen to him, even if she continued with her free spirited actions, he had to continue on. He couldn’t let Kane down, or Octavia, or himself. Everything now rested on the door in front of him opening, and his ability to keep Queen Abigail’s daughter safe.

He shifted uncomfortably with the wait, tugging uncomfortably on his helmet, feeling the sway of the chain mail weighing him down.

Some people were born to be royalty — the cape of regalia and responsibility alike sat atop their shoulders like it was made for them; like it belonged only to them. It had little to do with the circumstances of birth. If it had, perhaps her station might have fit Clarke better.

As it was, her prime pedigree guaranteed nothing; the royal blue blood of the House of Griffin seemed to have died out at the current queen regnant, if scandalous claims about her daughter were to be believed and, unfortunately, most of them were. Not only had the princess taken after her father in matters of state – the late Prince Jacob had barely brushed by his own aristocratic blood, more intrigued by the tinkering of common scholars than the state of his duchy – she also seemed to have inherited a certain lack of discretion. The Prince Consort had drifted past the impropriety of being caught in an appropriate stage of his courtship, to throw a veil over it, on account of being male and privileged and well-liked by the Crown Princess of the time. The potential scandal had easily resulted in a marriage that, while a shade premature perhaps, had flourished amiably and fruitfully.

Their daughter was not as lucky.

For one, Lady Luck herself seemed to be flirting with her, and Clarke did so dearly dislike that kind of lady, who teased and flirted mercilessly, just for the fun of it. Never was she caught slipping her guard in the bazaars to peruse the stands put up by street artists or leaving her bedroom in the middle of the night to meet with the young boys of the guard to play cards in the kitchens. No, somehow, she was always discovered in the worst of circumstances: inappropriately dressed or dancing alone in the rain in a courtyard or too close to a woman to be anything but scandalous. It wasn’t her fault she had the supreme bad luck of Kane finding her only in the most extenuating of circumstances, and the frequently bemused quirk of his mouth seemed to agree, but here she was, being punished for it anyway with a new team assigned specifically to guard her.

And if her conversation with Raven was anything to go by, the princess was displeased, to say the least.

Tap, tap, tap.

The only sound in the room continued to be the heated muttering of disapproval and the steady beat of the royal engineer’s hammer. In the existing murmur of sounds, the knock on the door was almost lost, had Raven not been looking for a way to politely escape her friend’s griping without making it look so obviously disrespectful. ( Truthfully, Clarke wouldn’t have cared – blissfully thankful for the handful of people who treated her as a person first – but the Queen did and she always found out. It was better for her friends to err on the side of caution within the walls of the palace, really. )

Raven unlatched and opened the door, both girls privately hoping for something to lift Clarke’s dark mood. Raven’s favourite choice would have been Wells Jaha, the prime minister’s son, but the pair’s recent falling out left the chances of that happening thin. Still, Raven thought she deserved better than what she got: three young men – boys, really – standing before the door, clearly waiting for an introduction. And if the audible exhale somewhere behind her, more sigh than breath, was any indication, Clarke had realised.

She stood from where she was perched on the tufted bench at the foot of her bed, palms sweeping imagined wrinkles out of the silk of her skirts and eyes coldly appraising. They had sent her three, all male, one of them standing in front of the other two, like some parody of a leader. It made it seem like he thought of himself as one; like he was there to take charge. Clarke hated that some boy, barely older than her, had come to manage her.

The resentment bled into her tone as she greeted them, eyes flicking over the leader’s form in obvious appraisal. “Good evening, men. Well? I take it you have reported for guard duty with Sir Kane?”

From a young age, James had been asked what it was that he wanted to be when he grew up. He’d never had an answer. As a student, he only satiated his curiosities, pursued learning that interested him and sparked his imagination and thinking. He didn’t play Quidditch not because he didn’t like it, but because he already knew it with a mother who was once a professional and a father who loved to attend every game he had a chance to. Exploring avenues that he hadn’t crossed was more exhilarating, more fun, and his choices reflected that. Potions was not to his liking because there was no guess work to it. A world opened up to him with charms and transfiguration where the possibilities soared.

During his fourth year, however, he began to consider his professional options. If Quidditch wasn’t an option, then he could at least give a thought to following in his father’s footsteps as an Auror. So he had gone to the Ministry and followed in the shadow of an auror-in-training. Everyone had applauded his choice, told him that he would certainly have a knack for it in the way that he always wanted to protect his siblings. He was doomed to disappoint them all, falling headlong into the dirt after soaring high in the sky. A hero’s work was not meant for him. Especially when he could be so easily swayed, so caught up in a wild daydream. The type of learning that he had gained from that experience came forth in the skills that he exerted now, in the bedroom, not in his career.

He was better off close to the ground, his feet dug into the earth where he had a steadier foundation. James had been a naïve fool in his youth, chasing after concepts without fulling comprehending the weight of them. That was why he descended into his own personal hell, warped into a dark mess in his head for the better part of a year. He had almost ruined any chances that he had for any career. The night before his O.W.L.s had marked the last night that he had ever drank. Instead of taking his tests with the rest of his classmates, he had been attached to a stomach pump.

He would never make that mistake again, never be that person again. After reassembling himself, he had put enough effort into his N.E.W.Ts a couple years later that he had been able to acquire his career of choice.

He put a considerable amount of effort stitching himself back together, so perhaps it was unwise to fall back into bed with someone who had been willing to pick at his wounds and create more. There was a patch of skin on his stomach that remained wretched, a glop of swollen skin that had melded together after a burn. Neither he nor Gisèle may be the same people that they were when they were teenagers, but perhaps there was something dangerous to rekindling the flame. If there was, it was a danger that he ignored.

He could not fault her for back then when her own wounds had been transparent in her haunted, dark expression. They both had been lost and when they had reached out, they had found each other. Not in a way that had brought them healing, but in a way that added gasoline to the pits of their separate despairs. There had been a validation in the way that they had come together where now there was satisfaction, and James saw no reason to dig up what they both had clearly spent considerable, measured time and effort burying.

It didn’t matter. What mattered now was that they picked at each other’s brains not out of desire to hurt or bleed, but for curiosity and argument’s sake. They played with each other’s bodies not for validation, but for satisfaction. James had no interest in becoming a fool for Gisèle – keeping her at a safe emotional distance was made easy knowing what she was capable of, but neither did that mean that they couldn’t have a good time together. He enjoyed the bouts of laughter and he found amusement in getting a woman who prided herself on her lavish lifestyle to crack juvenile jokes with him. He actually found himself liking the side of her that was exposed when she set aside her rigid class. With the hurt no longer swimming on their surfaces, they could enjoy being twenty with a libido that demanded to be seen to.

Where there was once heaviness, there was now lightness, an ease from which they flowed together in between the sheets. Even with all their experience, sex could be awkward.. There were limbs flying and jostling around and all the positioning that came with the act, but they relatively moved together fluidly and even when they didn’t, it was easy to adjust to where they wanted to be.

They didn’t even have to speak up – once the challenge had been put into play at the door, James and Gisèle had yet to falter. It was a game, the dirtiest form of play, and it was one where they could both win. To push and tug and pull at each other was neither a fight nor a battle. It was closer to a dance, one of the few that James had in his arsenal where he knew all the steps and could perform them blindfolded ( and had, on occasion. )

Thus, bringing Gisèle to an orgasm was a part of the act that he liked to perform well and execute each and every time that they were together. But he too was seeking gratification, and like most things between them, he didn’t have to voice his wants for them to be understood by the blonde tucked in front of him.

When she turned to him, his grin was far from coy. It was downright impish. There was no need nor room for modesty and he found himself once again internally describing her movements as feline, his own hand sliding upward to cup a breast, his own body taut and wound, an ache pulsating from between his legs.

One that Gisèle attended to, the initial touch enough to leave his breath hitching as he inhaled through his teeth. It was becoming increasingly harder to think with the need, need, need running red hot through his veins and pounding in his head. His thumb sunk into the indent of her breast, flicking against her nipple with the back of a fingernail. His other hand fell to her ass, kneading a rounded cheek to keep himself from thrusting forward, his hips jostling from the constrained effort.

“I’m glad that you approve of my handiwork.” His voice was a thick vibrato, rich in arousal. “I’m looking forward to your own efforts.” For the task was far from completed. “I think, between the two of us, we can come up with a successful collaboration that achieves both of our ends.” He wound his leg about one of her own, ankle rubbing hers, tucking their lower halves together. Tip of his tongue leaving his mouth to lick at his bottom lip, he snuck his hand on her ass downward to her thigh, cupping her leg and arching it upward and over his own. His eyes alight, he encouraged, “But I think you should demonstrate your own specialized skillset first, so we can properly bring them together?”

For most of the world, touch meant something. It was the unsung hero of affection, the thing that meant nothing at all to some because it came just so easily to them. And yet, to others, it meant everything. Those were the ones it truly mattered to; the ones who guarded their person so fiercely that to yield was to surrender. The curious ones were those who existed in the curious centre. Touch, for them, was not as much about their physical self as it was an inherent thing: they weren’t quite ready for their soul to be handled by hands that could never entirely be trusted. One could hardly trust their own self with that. Human beings were too gullible for that, always strolling into peril on their own two feet. And the body was only a vessel for the spirit; touching one could so easily mean touching the other.

Except the two so easily entwined in sheets as midnight navy as the air between them, in a bedroom as dark as their past, could not see it as such. For Gisèle Rousseau-Parkinson, at least, did not give her body nearly as much credit as that. It was important to a certain degree, certainly, but most things were. All she knew was that the mind was a far greater beast than the corporeal form that housed it, because bodies always mended, always. It could take hours or weeks or even years, but bodies mended themselves eventually. It was what was inside that was so damned delicate that once something cracked it, it was never quite okay ever again. With a thought like that, sharing the skeleton shell that was the human body became easy. Bones and blood and skin, after all, could scarcely matter much in the face of the human that occupied them.

Still, the girl had an established presence that had always categorised her as very much a cerebral person, rendering it remarkable how easily she took to physical interaction. It surprised even her sometimes. Nobody would have ever called her tactile or even affectionate, but once she had accepted that somebody was worth having in her life, it was easy to be physically comfortable around them, effortless unless she was deliberately making a point. And funnily enough, it hadn’t been this new thing that had landed him in that very specific space in her life; James Potter had always belonged there. He had naturally slid there somehow, shortly after they had stopped sleeping together the first time and opted for an odd play at friendship instead. He was just easy to forget to be conscious around. Even with the occasional propensity of being judgemental and argumentative about it, not caring what a casual acquaintance thought had been a novel concept. It was even more entertaining now that they were closer to friends than anything. Their chemistry helped — merely physical though it may been.

In the arsenal of facts she had collected about James Potter from their time together – infrequent smoker, frequent rambler, physically demonstrative and occasionally a righteous arsehole – was the fact that he was definitely not a dancer. In fact, one could probably pit his skills on a dance floor against his basic sartorial knowledge and come up empty on which would be the sure winner. Yet, as someone accustomed to social events that required a minimum passing knowledge of dancing practically since birth, Gisèle could see how he might easily fit into a waltz. He was all rumbling depth and meandering and a languid steadiness that would lend itself well to the dance. It could generally fit his personality as a person if not his footwork; as precise and self-aware as he was fluid and meditative. ( She’d have to one day drag him into a dance someday. Just to see. )

But when the two took to bed, there was no doubt spared that they were partners perfectly matched in style. Much like he may try to appear less easy than she was, James was every bit as ready and willing as she often was and practice had made perfect, creating an arrangement that flowed smooth and flawless, despite the occasional brief forays into laughter or awkwardness. The fact that fucking each other so resembled a long-winded game meant it had yet to get monotonous. There was just too much to be enjoyed about it.

Like the fact that he understood how much she liked having her breasts played with: his hands drawing back to them so soon had her breath catching in her throat again, chest rising with the hitched inhale that followed the sharp flick against her sensitive nipple. Her own hand teasing at his cock drifted up to scratch idly against his stomach, making way to grind her hips against his in turn, nails leaving rosy crescents in his skin as she rubbed up slow and teasingly against the hard length of his erection. She probably shouldn’t have; he had been more than generous enough to deserve more than teasing by then, but it was fun to draw it out, the anticipation almost as great as the moment it happened.

A laugh escaped her, quiet and amused. The kiss she pressed against his mouth was slow, lingering, and aiming to kiss the stuttering breath from him as much as it was to provide a moment to catch it. “Right, can’t be a successful collaboration without equal opportunity benefits.” The hand teasing idly at his torso drifted to his shoulder then, pushing down to guide him onto his back. It was testament to how well-choreographed this particular dance was that it happened so seamlessly; her thigh barely detached from where it was curled over his while they easily resituated, him on his back and her straddling his torso.

But oh, there was something so supremely satisfying about it. She was still so wet, eager to be filled again where he had removed multiple fingers from mere minutes ago, and him throbbing against her was all the motivation she needed. Some wanton, filthy part of her had awoken and near-purred in satisfaction at the very thought that nothing more than roughly fingering her to orgasm with his mouth on her breast had brought him to this point, a sizeable bulge noticeable between her legs as she hovered over him, knees braced on either side of his hips.

The hardest part of moving away for university was leaving your family behind, everyone always said. Ada’s dream college would be brought up at dinner parties and their guests would be equal parts sympathy for her parents – their only daughter, not the heir but still arguably the star of the Greengrass family, moving halfway across Europe –, and part surprise. Why so far away, when England has some of the most prestigious universities in the world? So far from your family, they would say – your parents, your brother. None of them were wrong about how hard it was to leave behind family, it was just who Ada’s family was that they got wrong. Ada had nothing against her parents or brother – far from it, actually. She’d just never connected with them in the same way most people did with theirs. It was hardly Ada’s fault her parents begged for a sheep and were given ( blessed, Ada would argue ) a wolf instead. No, Ada’s family was Gisèle. It always had been. Even if they found other friends, found lovers, expanded their own families, at the end of the day it was Gisèle who put first, and Ada knew the reverse was true too.

Loneliness hadn’t been an issue for Ada since she’d met Gisèle. Always smarter, always three steps ahead of her peers, flying when they were merely crawling, isolation had been something Ada felt keenly. Her brother, eight years older than Ada, wasn’t even a match for her. Patience had never been her strong suit, so instead of swallowing her pride and pacing her stride to match her peers, Ada decided she’d rather have no one. Her father’s vast and never ending library was company enough. Her peers were like subjects, good for playing victim in Ada’s schemes born of boredom, but little else. Gisèle was different. There was a storm in her soul that matched the rhythm of Ada’s own, forging a connection neither were particularly familiar with but neither ever wanted to lose. The ache of that isolation all but faded as the two became inseparable. Ada had never bothered with anyone else after that. She had Gisèle, and that was all Ada ever needed. Being without her was uncomfortably similar to being that little girl again, frustrated with the incompetence of the world and always wondering if her pride and intelligence meant she would always feel so isolated. She didn’t regret her choice to come to university so far away, and she knew it was a good thing to find their independence from each other. Plus, it had only been two weeks – it was possible doubtful she could meet someone able to keep pace with her. At any rate, without Gisèle there to monopolise both of their time, she could investigate Cassius Fulgora a little more.

Her curiosity was piqued. Ada knew he was another close, childhood friend of Gisèle’s, but she’d never had much to do with him before. She knew enough about him to see why Gisèle liked him, but presently she failed to see the appeal in crude humour, oversized egos, and fists instead of words. Even from Gisèle, those traits earned a raised eyebrow from Ada. At the very least, figuring out what it was Gisèle saw in him ( especially considering that he was rarely talked about unless it was in a trash-Cassius-Fulgora manner ) would provide Ada with some entertainment to distract her from missing the only person who had ever mattered to her.

“‘Pretty but a hopeless arsehole’ sounds about right. Having officially met the hopeless arsehole in question, I concur with this apt statement. Though, it could really describe half the boys I’ve met here so far. Boys in general, actually. Why anyone ever places a boy above their best friend, I’ll never know. Boys are good for looking pretty, doing your bidding, and sex. Not much else.”  Ada shook her head, genuinely perplexed, though her expression quickly morphed into a sly smirk. “Oh, I’m sure it was extremely satisfying. Did it taste as lovely as it looked, or are you saving that for another day?” Innuendo wasn’t something Ada usually slipped into conversation, – in fact, many would think this lighthearted banter, the laughter and the fondness that underpinned it was was uncharacteristic of Ada. The tension was eased from her shoulders, the predatory glint in her brown eyes replaced with something soft. Just as Ada knew Gisèle could lower her guards and be soft around Ada, the same could be said of Ada around Gisèle. Ada arched an eyebrow. “Interesting and special go hand in hand. What’s his name, this supposed cunnilingus champion who loves crisps on ice cream? I hope he knows that you got all your skills from me. And no. I came close, though. In one of my classes where it was clear I already knew a lot about the topic, this girl wanted to know if we could form a study group. Naturally, I said no because I have no patience for people who don’t have the brains to do their own work and just leech off others. She, and I doubt anyone else, will be asking me that again.”

More than two weeks apart, and Gisèle was just now starting to convince herself that it might be for the best. With Ada, she was comfortable in a way she had yet to find elsewhere, a deep-rooted sense of contentment between the two girls that they had yet to find elsewhere. ( Not that there had been any attempts to try, even. There was no point to trying to find another person they fit so well with when they had each other. ) They could be themselves, utterly and completely. Perhaps the concept wouldn’t have been so novel in all friendships, but for two as private as them, it was a near miracle. They knew each other — in the silent-communication, psychic-bond, mistaken-for-twins way that even had perfect strangers assuming them sisters. It wasn’t an improbable conclusion, even, not the way the two gravitated towards each other.

They knew each other in ways that meant that Gisèle could catch a downturn of her best friend’s mouth and react immediately, imperceptibly, because there was a difference between a superior frown and a sad one and she had known the difference since before she could spell the word frown itself. They knew each other in the way she could text Ada a perfectly innocuous sentence and Ada would still find the negativity lurking in her head through the four innocent unrelated words and try to pull it away. They knew each other; were home in a way no house and no family could ever be. Two girls who had grown up together sharing the world and liked it that way.

After all, they hadn’t been Gisèle and Ada for as long as memory served, more than happy to simply be GisèleandAda. And for two people who could certainly bask in any attention they got and relished proving themselves better than others, the very fact was a mystery. So easily, they could have been rivals, at each other’s throats. They could certainly be different enough to make it possible. But once the bond had been cast, nobody had really bothered questioning it.

And maybe it was time to question it. As sad as it made her (and as lonely as weekly sleepovers held over Skype only could be) maybe they had been too reliant. They were perfectly self-sufficient individuals apart, Gisèle was sure of that, but there could be no certainty until they really knew, and there was no way to do so when they were permanently attached at the hip. Perhaps the distance really was for the best; something that would help them grow into better, stronger people.

Of course, it could not help the fact of how intensely she wanted to have been there in Italy, present when Ada met her other childhood friend for the first time. Gisèle knew that the two bonded with entirely different sides of her, Ada vaguely disapproving of the very traits that joined her and Cassius Fulgora: verbal obscenities and physical responses. But she also knew that both were fearsome in their own rights, mighty powerhouses in a way that surprised others despite the vague air of power they carried. It would have undoubtedly been a sight to behold, this meeting of Cassius Fulgora and Ada Greengrass. Gisèle meant to pry every detail out.

Her own share of gossip was answered first, shoved quickly aside both for discretion’s sake and to focus on Ada’s: “Saving it for another day, yeah. You know how that pesky fudge sauce gets better with anticipation. Especially when it has no shame whatsoever. Claims to be called James Potter, older brother of two and wearer of plaid. But anyway, Fulgora. I need to hear everything. For posterity’s sake, obviously. Not that anyone ever doubted that the male race can be exceptionally stupid, even when they do fuck well, but how do they compare?” The laugh that followed Ada’s description of classmates, however, was much less animated: a quiet gentle thing that curled up warm to fill up the corners of her chest. Because Ada was important and comfortable and warm, the way only home could be, and the ease of how the moment flowed had her curling back into her pillow in utter contentment, bones gone warm and liquid in the feeling. “You tell them, girl,” she cheered, approval clear in her tone. “Most study groups are useless, as are the people willing to start them. I mean, they aren’t even smart enough to that people who have done their research are unlikely to be dumb enough to share it so easily? It’s sad to see such idiocy, really.”