#jp writes

In her weariness, she doesn’t dawdle on taking in the ambience of what appears to be a busy tavern. Already from the bridge that Oleander used to cross the river to get into the city of Novigrad, the noise and ruckus coming from the estate were unmissable, promising a lively inn. And a lively inn, in her experience, promised food and drinks to be served, and drinks and food came with the promise of a bench and a table to rest at. Chunky pieces of rich slices of bread and meats, useful in absorbing the plentiful of flowing alcohol… a thought that has her empty stomach growling and her mouth fill with water. Lodging for the night, she thinks and her mind wanders to the leather pouch containing ever-dwindling coins, she could not afford. But an ale or two, that she could pay for. About the rest of the night… well, she would have to see. Some way or other she would find a way to give her travel-weary body its deserving rest.

***** The bard on stage surveils his audience. Tonight’s spectators are the typical brawl found around these parts of the city, though this night one person, in particular, stands out from the crowd. He watched her tumble in, barely stable on her feet, just as he had finished a particularly polarising number. As entertainers do, he tries to interact with every member of his audience equally, though his gaze frequently hops back to that woman - auburn-hair artfully spun in a braided bun, and from what he could see, with a particularly lovely neck - though the lighting on the wooden stage may be playing a trick on him. She devours the snacks provided on the table like nothing else and nurses a drink. A woman after his own heart, he muses, considering the snacks are one of the bard’s favourite discoveries if he does say so himself. Thin, the thinnest slices of a round loaf of bread, crispy when bitten and lightly salted, they go well paired with any alcoholic beverage: The perfect addition to his cabaret. The bard’s pale blue eyes are still on the woman, he watches as she picks up crumb after crumb of the baked bread slices. As soon as the contents of the bowl are gone, almost as quickly as she started nibbling them, she returns to sipping her drink.

The bard is familiar with the air she has about her, knows it too well from the contorted figure staring back at him in the mirror, the few times the lodges he stayed at provided them; recognises travel exhaustion easily after years spent on the path accumulating the adventures he now sings about. Something about her, may it be empathy for a fellow travelled soul, his kindness of which some people say he doesn’t possess a speckle underneath all his egocentrism, or may it be a different pull altogether… whatever between the three it may be - mayhaps a combination even - is reason enough for him to announce a short break.

There is an ever-so-slight tremble to her hand as she moves the tankard of ale to her mouth, she sips it and sets it down again. Wood on wood a loud echo, as she loses her hold on the tankard a little too soon, and stifles a yawn. Her eyes get smaller and smaller, the longer she sits.

A sudden jolt to the table shakes Oleander out of her daze, eyes suddenly wide awake: Two hands had fallen down on the table, mirroring the previous impact from the tankard. This, though, the slapping, she thinks, was on purpose. The hands look masculine, she observes as her gaze travels upwards; her eyes following the ruffles of a cream undershirt that disappears underneath the hem of fuchsia coloured leather.

“You,” the man exclaims dramatically, revealing unmalicious intentions, despite his dramatic entrance, “must be hungry.” “No, I’m a person.” The retort comes quick, the words leaving Oleanders mouth before she can stop them. What a stupid joke, she thinks, and blames her tiredness for it. But the man barks out a laugh, shakes his head. “That was unexpected.” “Yeah, well for me too.” Oleander looks sheepish. “May I rephrase my previous statement, then? Are you, dearest, experiencing a state of a rumbly tummy, others before us, better people surely, have called hunger?” Oleander twirls the mug from side to side, the last of the liquid inside sloshing around at the bottom. Tame her hunger the drought didn’t, that much is true. But she would rather spend her last coin on another drink than forgo liquid for a meal.

“Hungry, I am, good Sir, but my coin purse doesn't allow for it,” she admits at last. No point in beating around the bush, though she is not even certain the man heard her full sentence, since, in the last minute they have spoken, the general volume of the tavern has significantly increased: Sporadic shouts and general ruckus began to rise around them: pointed inquiries for the bard to pick up his lute again. “In that case,” he claps his hands together, his focus solely on the woman in front of him; he ignores his impatient crowd for now. Instead, he turns around to the bar to check for Gustaf, the barkeep, satisfied he’s there wiping the counter, the bard turns again to the woman. “In that case my dear customer, may I propose food and drink on the house tonight?” “After all, what kind of owner of a fine establishment like this would I be, if I let such a lovely flower as yourself leave my premises unsatisfied?” Oleander starts her objection, though the man quickly declines underlined by a firm shake of his head: “Ah now, now, I won’t accept objections, my dear. I insist,” he says, takes a bow and leaves her table.

Baffled at what whirlwind had just visited her table, Oleander watches the man strut away to instruct the barkeep. It’s only a quick chat, the volume in the playhouse increasing by the minute: shouts of “Play another, bard!” fill the room. Oleander even perceives a hollered “Play Jajadingdong!”, whatever that may mean, and another requires, much to the approval of many: “Priscilla’s Song!”

Oleanders attention travels from the unsettled audience back to the bard at the bar, who’s finishing his instructions enhanced by wild gesticulations to and from her table, then leaves the barkeep to resume his post on stage. “And pour her another ale!” He shouts over his back, before hurrying to his waiting audience, which he addresses with his leather-clad arms wide open. “Ladies, and gentlemen,” he announces; his long fuchsia coat swooshes behind him as he hops on stage, “you very well know I don’t play Priscilla’s song when I’m on my own. But you lovely folk are more than welcome to return when the Nightingale next performs.” Low disapproval rumbles through the tables in answer. “It’s way too slow of a number for my taste tonight, anyway. Isn’t that right folks?” This time it’s agreeing glee that swashes back at the bard on stage. Oleander, who follows the interaction with fascination while waiting for her meal, next notices a burly man heaving himself up from the bench he sits on, swings his ale into the air and exclaims: “Stop the lollygagging already, bard, and let that butcher BUURN!” A dozen or so people join him. The volume reaches new heights, as heavy benches scrape over the flooring and the sound of more people standing up and agreeing, yet again, fills the air. More or less stable on their feet, they shower the unfortunate people still sitting in sticky liquid from ale and beer sloshing around their overflowing, raised tankards. The unison cries echoes the last wish until the noise level finally crescents with the resultant uproar: “LET THE BUTCHER BURN!” The bard on stage who watched his audience’s interaction - a twinkle in his eye revealing his amusement - grabs a hat from somewhere and begins the desired song with a rehearsed dramatic turn. He does get lost in his performance like every night, though he has to admit that tonight his glance wanders over to the woman at the table in the corner more than once. He merely wants to verify that she’s eating, he tells himself and eating she is, oh gods is she eating. He was right, that poor thing is half-starved. With another aggressive string of his lute and another word shouted out, he twirls to the other side of the tavern. The picture of the woman temporarily forgotten as he gives himself over to his performance.

The words to his song sting him, nothing new. Sometimes, it even feels like he almost welcomes the familiarity of it. Tonight though, he finds the sting somewhat alleviated. Its grip less sharp as on other nights; it doesn’t quite pierce his core like usual. Almost as if a healing balm, that relieves him of the poison, has set over his skin.

Once more, the bard’s gaze wanders over to the auburn-haired woman. He didn’t even ask for her name: negligence on his part, that he needs to modify later. Might even need to cut his performance short to make sure he could correct this unfortunate mishap before the woman leaves. Although… now that his mind is on the subject, with her last coin already spent, she might not even have a place to go, with no way to pay for lodging… From his own experiences, he knows even the humblest of accommodations required more coin than they were deserving of. And as every thug and delinquent was well aware, of even outrageously expensive stables were preferable to the gutters of Novigrad.

After another song or two, he supposes, he could get away with a quick break, maybe promise the audience an encore. That way it would allow him to have a quick chat with the woman before she was gone. ******

Oleander scrapes the spoon a last time along the bottom of the now emptied bowl, when the same man as before appears seemingly out of nowhere: Oleander herself too preoccupied with guzzling the food down, to follow the man’s antics on stage. “So good to see you enjoying the food, dearest.” “Oh, it’s you.” Her eyes widen at the recognition and she smiles at him, her demeanour already much livelier than previously. “Thank you, for the food. I really needed that and it's a top contender for one of the most delicious meals I have ever had the grace to taste.” That brings a beam to the man’s face: “I’m glad to hear that. I do pride myself on providing not only exquisite entertainment but also offering the finest selection of foods, I'll have you know. Allow me to introduce myself,” he continues theatrically, “Julian Alfred Pankratz … ah,” he interrupts himself, “screw all that, just call me Jaskier,” he finishes with a flourish. “It’s nice to meet you, Jaskier. Especially because you treated me to all this.” She gestures vaguely to the table to encompass the empty bowls and plates. “Thank you, again, for the meal, you were gone so quickly, I didn't even have the time to pay you my respects for this honourable invitation, I appreciate it,” she stops shortly, then finishes her ramble: “I’m Oleander.”

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Oleander... about the food, don’t you mention it, I did it gladly. Only I needed to go so quickly, because, - and what can a bard say - I had an audience to take care of. But now that they are sufficiently satisfied, for the moment at least,” he interjects with a side-glance to the crowd in question, “I must ask you something, dear, if you don’t mind." Jaskier doesn't give Oleander time to replay, continuing straightaway instead: "I am gonna make a… some might say - questionable - and daring presumption but rest assured dear Oleander, Jaskier the bard has only the best of interests at heart.” The vague description leaves Oleander curious and her inquisitive look leads Jaskier to continue. “Am I right in assuming you don’t have a place to stay for the night?” “Yes,” she says, eyes cast down. No point in denying her less-than-ideal situation. Knowing her dire position, perhaps he’ll let her sleep here on the benches near the fire after folks have cleared out.

“That’s rather unfortunate. Although you might as well count your lucky stars, for you, my dear, have won a night at the Chameleon - my humble establishment.” “You can’t be serious!” Oleanders mouth drops open, awed, this was more than she dared hope for. “Rest assured, I am, serious!” The bard exclaims excitedly. “In fact, I can spare a few minutes before the bumbling band of baboons in here will demand I sing again, or otherwise I fear they’ll take my head. I could show you to your chamber’s right this second if you finished dining. Or perhaps you’d like another ale first?” Jaskier’s eager demeanour was a lot to keep up with, but nothing Oleander wasn’t used to from some kids back home. With a pat to her belly, she declared “Oh, I’m done, there is no more space for another drop or crumb in here.” “Very well then, follow me, if you would, my dear.” And that she did. ******

“You must be jesting, Jaskier. This is much more than I expected, are you quite certain you can spare this room?!” Oleanders green eyes widen as she takes in the sight of what she is convinced must be the best room in the house: Wide, open space, polished wooden flooring, elegantly furnished and cosy looking furs round off what is clearly fabulous interior design. “My dear rose, the fine establishment you currently reside in is owned by me, therefore, allow me to fill my empty rooms to my liking. And for tonight this suite shall house a weary traveller, I’ve decided and so it shall be. I won’t abide any complaints.”

“If you’re quite sure I won’t ask if you have all your marbles with you after all, and instead humbly accept your offer. This is so very kind of you, Jaskier.” Unbelieving of her luck tonight, - Oleanders widened eyes still roam around the room - she accepts Jaskier’s hospitality without further ado.

Half-shielded behind a folding screen decorated with intricate patterns carved into the wood, Oleander finds a sturdy wooden bathtub. The water inside hot; it readily steams away.

“So you can give your body a little soothing treatment before you lay to sleep,” Jaskier - having followed Oleanders peer - comments. She watches, awed by the thoughtfulness, as the man then struts over to a shelf on the wall, from where he pulls down a glass half-filled with bath salts, opens the lid and with a flick of his wrist, sprinkles a handful of salt into the tub. Next, he glides over to the upper shelving unit, hand fishing around before he - accompanied by a triumphant “aha!” - procures another glass jar that holds “dried lavender bundles.”

Jaskier, having walked over to - this time around - gently place a few twigs of dried lavender into the awaiting water, turns around to Oleander. “I gotta go back and entertain the audience forthwith, and you, my flower, enjoy your bath.” Admittedly a little disappointed that the bard wouldn’t be staying, Oleander undresses, once aforementioned bard has closed the door with a gentle click. She steps her toe into the waiting water: the temperature is a little on the high side, getting in is a slow procedure, but at least this way it promises a longer venture.

She slides in and is immediately greeted by the faint herbal scents the bath salts exude, rosemary and thyme, she believes. Their smell mixed with the flowery undertones of lavender and in combination with their medicinal properties; they prove a solace to her aching body and let Oleanders weary mind relax. The heat of the water sinks into her very bones and along with the vapour of the steaming liquid that rises around her, her ails of the road disappear into thin air. She leans her back against the edge of the tub and relaxes into the water.

*****

Suddenly two knocks, in very quick succession, jostle Oleander awake. She sits up, water splashing a little at her sudden movement, just as the door opens a few inches. “Oleander? It’s me, Jaskier,” Jaskier says, poking his head through the ajar door. “Oh, come in.” “I don’t mean to impose myself on you,” he excuses, as he steps through the door into the room. “I needed to make sure you didn’t fall asleep in that tub, dear,” the bard explains, walks over to the shielded area, and suddenly finds himself having much trouble not to stumble over his own words, once he takes in the sight of Oleander in the tub. The heat of the water has tinted her body - naked and fully on display - the warmth lends colour to her cheeks - a lovely rose-tone - and underneath the surface, Jaskier outlines the shadows of her shapely breasts. What’s more is the brazen look he is met by, once his eyes have travelled up far enough to see her face. It’s a look he’s seen once before, the unabashed presentation of ones body. As if to say: “Here I am, take me in, I don’t care.” The way how she holds herself in her given frame as it is merely a vessel holding her spirit. And what a lovely vessel it is, Jaskier thinks briefly, when he can’t help his eyes roaming all over once more, taking in the sight that's presented in front of him, anew.

*****

Oleander meets the bard’s gaze. He’s still wearing that ridiculous coat of his. Though, in contrast to earlier in the evening, he looks flushed now, a little sweaty even, if the dollop near his forehead dangling from a loose strand of hair is anything to go by. Performing in that carefully put-together outfit of his must get hot after a while. Whereas she didn’t pay it too much attention earlier in the evening; too preoccupied with the feast in front of her - thanks to rest and a tummy comfortably full of food, Oleander feels rejuvenated - her senses sharper again, she takes it all in now. His half-undone doublet underneath his coat exposes a rather revealing blouse.

Through it, Oleander sneaks a peek at a hairy chest: coarse, dark hair adorns what seems to be not an inconsiderable amount of muscles and a glimmer that reflects the dim candlelight, the bling of a necklace, perhaps.

“Aren’t you warm in your coat?” She asks, scrutinizing his masterfully dishevelled hair. “I am, now,” he admits. “You could,” she starts unashamed. Fully aware, that she sits naked in the bathtub, she begins idly playing with the hot water, her finger twirling through the liquid, and disrupting the smooth surface. Her eyes, dark in the dimly lit room, follow the movement her fingers create before she ultimately regards Jaskier again, and finishes: “… join me if you’d like.”

The bard scrambles to follow her proposal; almost falls over in his eagerness as he starts discarding his clothes quickly.

Oleander closes her eyes again, a supposed sign of her relaxation while leaving Jaskier in the belief of privacy for his undressing. She hears a few mumbled “Fuck’s”, a curse against all buttons in general and one heartfelt, yet still muttered “Fuckity fuck -fuck!, just come OFF”, before his garments start to drop to the ground, one low thud after the other. Though still pretending not to pay him much attention, eyes still closed, Oleander can’t help the wide smile of amusement that spreads out on her lips.

When she next opens her eyes Jaskier has successfully settled into the tub across from her and sits resting against the edges mirroring Oleanders pose. From up-close, she gets a full view of the necklaces he’s wearing, emphasis on necklaces, since the bard is not only wearing one, as Oleander previously suspected, but two. One is a simple, yet expensive looking chain that carries a ring, from the other dangles a shape resembling an odd fork, with two instead of three prongs, an object perhaps, that Oleander has not seen before. The pendants rest comfortably in the middle of his chest, his prominent pecs displayed on either side. “The songs you played,” she says a little hesitant, aware discussing them must be a personal topic for the bard, other than when he chooses to share them with an audience. “... I really liked them. Under different circumstances, I would have liked to get up and dance, but for that, I was too exhausted. You gotta come to one of our village festivals and perform there, we can make up for my lack of dance then.” “Yeah? That’s good to hear.” His answer is more a comment on the compliment he’s just been paid, rather than the request to come perform.

His demeanour is changed, Oleander notices, is more relaxed now, a little quieter perhaps as downstairs. As if, she muses, as if the bard discarded the extravagant entertainer along with his signature coat. Stripped bare, he sits in front of her, the jewellery adorning him - the dainty chains dangling from his neck and a ring on his finger - the only earthly possessions that still embellish him. “Mhm,” Oleander nods, lays her head to the side, “do you not get super hot performing in that outfit of yours?”

Jaskier laughs: “Nah, that depends on the location, some barnes are so drafty that I freeze my buttocks off on the regular.” Oleander chuckles, relaxes deeper into the water and tangles her feet into Jaskier's outstretched ones. She lets their laugh remain in the air, lets it settle into a peaceful ambience of mutual comfort. After a moment or two, she picks up the topic of his songs again, a topic her curiosity wouldn’t let go of.

“Let me ask you a question now, if you don’t mind, bard,” she echoes Jaskier’s words from earlier in the evening. “Of what Butcher do you sing?” Jaskier’s face darkens, a shadow passes over his eyes, clouding the light blue for a moment. It raises in Oleander the picture of grey storm clouds pushing in front of a clear, blue sky. The bard sighs, his body stiffens and his darkened eyes turn to observe the surface of the bathwater, looking for images perhaps; an easy answer maybe. When he doesn’t find them, he breathes out deeply and meets Oleander’s glance again. “That’s a long story.” The “that I don’t want to trouble you with,” hangs implied in the air. “Another night, maybe,” he says, signalling he is not rebuffing her.

“What business brings you to the far corners of this land tonight?” He asks Oleander.

“Personal business,” she replies promptly, and after a moment of hesitation goes on: “My father is ailed by an illness and our village medicine is not enough to cure it… Some say he’s been poisoned by a monster, though we do not know which. Or if this is true at all. But our soothsayer pointed me to Novigrad, assuring me the residing alchemist here would have the remedy…” she pauses, processing the information just shared. “I’ve set aside a considerable amount of coin in my bag, still. All the coin we could spare really, to be able to afford it. Hence the cutbacks I had to make while on the road.” The truth and worry spill out of her easily. So easily. The close-kept secret of why she’s actually travelling piles out of her in front of Jaskier. Something tells her this secret is safe, here, with him. As much as it’s not actually a secret, but rather a lesson learned the hard way: spare coin is nothing for a traveller to reveal in these parts of the continent.

****** The atmosphere between them after the more serious topic turns quaint and lighthearted, with the both of them sat in the bathtub, idle chitchatting the night away. Words and laughs exchanged like they’re old friends, like their acquaintance has lasted years already and was not started on this night. This is until Jaskier, who scrutinised Oleander closely during her sharing a tale of her home, realises how much time has passed. The once-hot water must have turned tepid a while ago, way too cold for a human. “How about we get out and get you to bed, sweetheart?” He offers. “You must be cold and beyond exhausted by now.” “Mhmh,” she nods in agreement. Jaskier gets out first, procures a seizable towel from another shelf and holds it open, an invitation for Oleander to get wrapped up in the big, fluffy goodness. She accepts gladly and once she steps out of the bath, Jaskier wraps her up and rubs her dry as good as he can. Getting the blood in her limp limbs flowing again. He almost melts at the way Oleander falls into his opened arms, and, even through the thick material, leans into his touch.

“Thank you,” she says, while tired, but sated eyes blink up at him. She unwraps herself out of the towel, takes it from Jaskier and returns the favour. Once she’s done, having ensured every previously wet patch was sufficiently dried, going so far as to rubbing the tips of his almost shoulder-length hair tenderly without tugging too much on the strands, between the towel, she asks with earnest innocence tainting her voice: “Are you staying?” It’s a gentle invitation to prolong the time sharing the same sphere that they fell into while exposed in the bathtub, after having orbited around each other ever since Oleander set foot in the cabaret. An invitation Jaskier would be a fool to deny.

She reaches for his hand and guided by her, he graciously follows suit. Awestruck, he doesn’t verbally convey his enthusiasm, the “Staying? Of fucking course I am,” only silently running through his mind, at first. “There’s no place on the continent I’d rather go, than remaining here with you, my love,” he admits eventually. The smile she sends him over her shoulder in response is the spark igniting a previous wingless thing. It is now beating in his heart, an excited fluttering at the return to its natural state; after finally being reunited with what it had gone without, for far too long.

They both settle into the bed, tumbling on top of each other at first before each settles down on one side, and an easy, comfortable silence falls over them, only interrupted by the cracking of burning logs coming from the fireside.

Laying side by side, facing each other, Jaskier expects Oleander to nod off quickly, but to his surprise, her tired eyes stay open - her exhausted body too busy keeping her alive to let her doze off - she absorbs the living creation in front of her. Oleander reaches her hand out to Jaskier once more, this time to trace the path of the chain around the bard’s neck. Her eyes travel up from the metal, warmed by the man’s body temperature, to the pale blue of his eyes. The invisible line her fingertips follow disturb the hair on his chest; tickle him. All this time, Jaskier remains quiet, observes her, spellbound, as he waits for his queue. “Tell me a story?” She semi asks, semi requires after a while of muted study.

He swallows, his voice, after tonight’s exertion, is thinner, raspy when he says: “I don’t have a story.” Oddly enough, all his thoughts, the constant stream of tales, as well as all the commotion in his head, he finds hushed in her presence. In the unusual serenity of his genius, he searches until a sole story remains, because who is he to deny her?

Eventually, he says: “I do know a ballad.” She beams and holds her breath waiting for him. He stretches out his hand, and a finger, much thicker than hers, weaves aside a loose strand of hair that escaped her artfully crafted hairdo Jaskier admired all evening. “It’s in elder speech.” He gets lost playing with her hair for a moment before he continues: “I’ve been trying to translate it for a while now, not too much success, I must admit, as there are few words in our language as beautiful as elvish. Though,” he pauses for a second, pondering, “I can say, my latest revision did improve things immensely.” The honesty of her green eyes appear to bleed nothing but kind curiosity, but the longer Jaskier submerges in them, the more her exhaustion creeps through, and despite his desire to talk away the night with her, worry prompts him to require: “I’ll share it if you promise to go to sleep.”

“Okay.”

As Jaskier starts to recite the first line, he runs his finger down the curve of the side of her that’s exposed to him.

But when he feels her eyes still trained on him, open eyes, he stops to softly scold her: “Close your eyes then, little rose.”

She obeys hesitantly, though a smile rounds her cheeks. She scoots around on the bed: an attempt at settling in the snuggest position possible; wrapped into the blanket and eventually, she shuts her eyes.

She does sneak her hand out from underneath the blanket, to Jaskiers - skin touching skin - as she takes his in hers and guides it underneath the blanket, back on her naked form: a demand for him to continue the caress that he temporarily paused while Oleander nestled in.

He does as is asked of him and begins to recite. "This feels nice," are the last words Oleander dispenses, before she nods of listening to Jaskier intoning a ballad with his soothing voice:

“To adore you is all my life Fair Ettariel Let me keep, then, the treasure of memories, and the magical flower; A pledge and sign of your love. Silvered by drops of dew as if by tears…”

“Sleep well, dear heart,” he whispers into her forehead, once he's done, certain his flower has at last fallen asleep and presses his lips softly against her skin.

******

The mattress she seems to be lying on is firm, yet agreeably soft. The duvet covering her, ensheathing her in warmth and comfortable heaviness, is puffy: thick without being too stuffy.

Her head is resting on a soft cushion, her chestnut hair partly covering her closed eyelids, partly spreading out over the pillow, and some disappearing underneath the duvet.

It’s apparent even in her state between slumber and waking, that the bed in its subtle comfort is much different from the one she had gotten used to during her time at the mutant underground.

The corner of the room assigned to her when she first arrived, greeted her with a structure resembling a bed, even though its lack of comfort barely accounted for such a name: a simple military-style pop-up.

A brown blanket, coarse wool, effective against the cold that creeps in at night, and a simple rectangular pillow were neatly placed on top.

There’s a comforting scent wafting from the foreign textiles that she is lying on now.

A scent that her subconscious ascribes a sense of familiarity to results in her turning around with a small sigh, her hand reaching out, but she only finds a pillow to tug closer. Her green eyes flutter open for the briefest second before they close again and Ivy nods off and returns to her healing sleep.

The nearby armchair, purposefully placed across from the bed, hosts a figure: slumped over and strands of dark hair that fall into their closed eyes obstruct a view of their face.

A change in the atmosphere, unnoticeable to a human's ear, jerks them awake.

Alarmed by Ivy’s temporarily accelerated heartbeat he opens his eyes, blinks them awake.

Once, twice, before he is able to carefully observe the person moving in his bed, remnants of sleep limit his awareness.

After a few moments pass, where he lets his senses roam over Ivy; feeling for anything out of the ordinary, he is relieved to recognise the return of a slower and steady thump, thump, thump.

Reassured by this, he closes his eyes again, slumps back into the armchair, leans his head against its headrest and tries to let sleep fall over him once more.

The images his brain procures, however, hinder him.

Alongside the conjured pictures hides the same agitation he had felt a few hours ago, aggressive emotion that spreads through him anew:

The helplessness he had felt despite his strength as he carried her. A fragile, immobile body. The worry that spreads in him begins to nestle in his every atom.

It had been almost instinctual how the chemicals in his body had registered that something must have gone wrong, terribly wrong, a mere second before the alarm bells rang shrill in his brain.

The way his body stiffened, frozen in place for a moment, while he watched yet another blast, the final one, hit the nearly invisible shield.

Only this time, it didn’t hold. Didn’t shield like it was meant to.

He watched in shock as the barrier broke down, in hindsight certain he could pinpoint the exact moment the membrane of the shield, the subtle, flickering disturbance in the air, gave in.

And with it, Ivy.

His view slightly obstructed by a strand of hair that he never quite managed to tame, he had watched in horror how one side of her lithe body had mirrored the impact that was meant to hit the shield, meant to be absorbed by it.

Instead, Ivy had collapsed, the picture of a puppet, her strings cut-off.

He didn’t run, didn’t dodge the debris all around him, didn’t fight back. Reduced to an immobile spectator as he could only watch the disaster unfold, he heard the thump of her powerless body connecting with the ground.

His sharp senses rang loud after that, alarming his entire being that something went wrong, very, very wrong.

Once the initial shock had passed, everything that happened after went by in a flash, a blur that he can barely decipher now. Knows he ran over to pick her up, her limp body’s resources fully exhausted and next, the comforting words by their residing nurse that Ivy would fully heal.

Back in the bedroom, John ponders the incident once more, but now lingers on the moment he knew Ivy was safe.

The relief he had already felt when the nurse explained that she didn’t detect any fatal damage, substitutes his agitation and ultimately the sight of Ivy safe in his bed, the thumping of her heart his lullaby, settles him back to sleep.

*****

Muted tones of violin and piano hummed through the air. The melody weaved its way from the nook in which the record player was nestled next to an overflowing bookcase; along the wooden structure of the vitrine displaying assorted dishes and mugs and past a fragile coffee-table decorated with a single vase that held a bouquet of dried flowers. 

The tune carried in gentle spirals upwards over to the mantelpiece, where it picked up and mixed with the crackling of a fire. At last, the music extended over to you settling down on the worn leather couch in front of the dancing fire. 

The velvety instrumental hum entered your ear, tickled your senses and the warmth radiating off the fireplace brushed over your cheek. A contented noise rose in your throat and you brought the mug of steaming honey-and-ginger tea up to your face.

Inhaling the citrusy undertones of the herbal tea and letting it permeate through every vein of your body, your hands clasped the pottered cup tighter. Encased in a bubble of warmth, you were shielded from the chill that was creeping in from the outside through the cracks in the stones of the old cottage.

Upon your emerging from the bath a few moments ago, the discomfort in the air had already been palpable to you, so you had skipped over to the sofa where you now snuggled deeper into the knitted blanket wrapped around you, afraid to lose warmth to the blustery air that whistled through the cottage; brought on by an approaching storm. 

You strained your ears to hear past the wind blowing outside to get a feel for Henry's progress. 

The latter had started pottering around outside the minute you had escaped the sudden change of weather into a steaming bath; set out on his mission to secure the deckchairs, clear away the clutter on the porch, and to stock the log pile up before the two of you would settle down for the night. 

The sound of an axe swoosh-ing through the crisp autumn air, followed by sharp blows, one after another, indicated the splitting of dry wood; pieces of timber fell down and joined the ever-growing pile of logs by the side of the man hard at work. 

A faint grunt here and there was perceivable from your cosy spot on the couch. You couldn't help but pout as images of Henry toiling away flashed before your eyes; you wouldn’t have minded at all to come along and keep him company outside, while his muscles strained with the effort it took to carry and cut the wood. 

Your earlier insistence of wanting to help storm-proofing the outside, however, was met by resistance from your boyfriend. The cold hardly bothered him: layers of muscle and body fat combined into a protective layer - a natural radiator - that shielded him from the cold seeping in. 

Therefore, instead of risking you catching a cold, he suggested you take a nice, hot bath and get yourself cosied up and toasty in front of the fire afterwards, which he would have ready for you by then.

Lost in your musings, it escaped your notice that it had turned quiet outside, and before you knew it, the door swung open. 

A basket full of logs entered, then the face of your boyfriend followed suit: messy curls, having escaped the confinements of his beanie, hung into his eyes while beads of sweat dripped down his forehead and ran a course along the outline of his beard. 

His fingers were clutched onto the edges of the woven basket; his large palms holding the heavy item in a secure grip while his biceps bulged under the heavy burden. 

You jostled at the sudden thud when the frame met its hinges. Too preoccupied studying his powerful form entering into the narrow entryway, the door banging shut took you by surprise and had you shaking out of your stupor.

Every sinew and muscle seemed highlighted after his workout.

Henry closed the door with the nudge of his booted foot, whereupon it fell shut with a resonating clatter. 

Henry himself visibly winced at the noise. The sound, louder than he’d anticipated, reverberated through the hut, disturbing the peace. 

“Sorry, love,” he apologised with a grimace shot your way, as he walked over to the fireplace. Your curious eyes watched him pass you by, the veins travelling from his large palms up his arms towards his elbow prominent and his muscles enhanced from the exertion. 

Then, he looked up at you, your cheeks highlighted by the amber glow of the fire, stray drops of water still clinging to your hair. As always, your hands were holding a mug, now though, your palms were half-buried in the rolled-up sleeves of an oversized knit cardigan, only your fingertips peeking out from underneath the extra layer of warmth over what appeared to be a fresh set of pyjamas.

He’d taken off his jacket a while into the endeavour it seemed, now only dressed in his undershirt which was tinted dark in places where sweat had soaked it through.

‘How many logs have you split?’ You huffed incredulously as you scrutinised the basket spilling over with logs.

Henry shrugged his shoulders. ‘Thought, I might as well stock up now, while I’m at it,’ he brushed your remark off and knelt down, mindful to keep away from the rug. He proceeded to transfer the logs into the iron holder right by the fireside. 

Soothing your aching muscles and comfort entering your body and how, afterwards, you would dry yourself off with the fluffiest towel you could find.

Pleased to find you had followed his offer after you had both retreated inside from your hike, and drawn a bath like he had suggested, he returned his attention to the logs.

Yet, he got lost in picturing you pouring bath oil into the steaming liquid. The temperature always, always a few degrees hotter than when he’d run it for you; and how you would gently glide down into a sea of dried petals. Submerging your body into a delightful haven. 

A tender expression took over Henry’s features as he regarded you. His musings got interrupted by the frown that had formed on your forehead; your gaze wandering away from the fire and shifting towards the glass windows that rattled abnormally loud in their hinges. 

The forbidding clouds were turning darker with every passing minute. The once colourful yellow and orange leaves turned a unicolour grey and started to churn as the wind picked up its pace; tugging solitary leaves up in its wake and stirred them around in aggressive swirls.

He followed your worried glance and was presented with clouds hanging dark and heavy in the sky: harbinger of a brewing storm.

Your face had already turned back around to him before the man had a chance to express his sweet reassurances.

“You’re sure this is safe?”

He was with you in seconds, crossing the distance between the two of you in sure strides, he leaned close to you, so you could feel his presence, and looked into your eyes to say: “I know it looks scary, but trust me that it looks scarier than it actually is, okay? You’re safe with me. I promise.” 

Henry cocked his head to the side, propped himself up and out of his squatting position, brushed his hands over his thighs to clean off any remnant specks of dirt, and stood up.

“Yes, love. This cottage has been in my family… I don’t know how many generations and has survived as many storms. I assure you, I would never bring you somewhere I can’t safeguard you, my sweet.”

Henry didn't give you an opportunity to object: he touched his lips to your forehead, where your worry lines had formed, and, at the same time, inhaled the scent of you overlaid with the fragrance of a recently taken bath that was still lingering in your hair, as he pressed a chaste kiss to your head. 

“You smell really good,” he stated in a low baritone when he pulled back. He brushed the tips of his fingers along your cheekbones, watched you yipping at the coldness with an amused smirk. 

His hands, in contrast to the sweat he’s worked up getting the wood for the fire ready, were icy.

He teased you a little longer, tapping the pad of his finger against the sensitive spot under your ear, which had you jerking your head to the side, squirming away from the unwelcome sensation; a laugh quavering out of you.

The slight grin on Henry’s face grew into a full-on, genuine smile as he noticed the worry lines on your face had disappeared: replaced by a smile of your own and he continued watching your cat-like trying to wind away.

Sooner than you would have liked, he removed himself from your personal space again, and had nearly rounded the couch with an ‘I’m headed to the bathroom, babe,’ to explain his actions. 

His reassurance, however, was met with you protesting he daren’t leave you alone again, especially now that the storm was steadily inching closer. 

The sooner he would leave you now, the quicker he’d be back, he figured.

Nonetheless, your face following him with a pout as your attentive eyes watched him walk away, wasn’t lost on him.

‘I’ll be right back, I’m just taking a quick shower,’ he said.

You hastily set the mug aside on the nearby table, scrambled over to the armrest and grabbed Henry’s wrist in an iron grip, unwilling to let your boyfriend go. You tugged on his arm until he caved, he was watching your antics with an amused but equally fond expression. 

His blue eyes still trained on you, he followed your lead; let himself be tugged closer by you and leant slightly forward to where you were rising on your knees, stretching out towards him; an attempt in vain to match his height. 

The armrest posing as an unwanted barrier between the two of you hindered you from pulling him over to you completely though. You ignored the barricade and met him halfway off the couch. 

You brushed your thumb along his cheekbone, over to the hollow of his eyes, up to his nasal bone and traced down the slope. You shuffled a little on your knees, cupped his face with your small hands and shifted on the couch cushions to rise even higher so that you were ultimately able to place a kiss on the tip of his nose. ‘Stay here, it’s warm.’ 

His hands to both sides on the armrest, he caged you in and leant close, eyes shifting between the plumpness of your lips and your soft gaze, prolonging the moment.

When your lips finally met, Henry’s were cold against your warm ones, greeting his familiar pressure with a taste of ginger, honey and citrus. You hummed into the kiss, mumbling a faint ‘no showering’ into his lips as your fingers were tracing the outline of his beard with featherlight touches.

From there, you let your lips travel the same way back, mirroring the path your thumb had taken only moments ago. You wandered over his cheek, further along the sculptured structures of his face. 

The hairs of his beard tickled you as you trailed chaste kisses and featherlight breath on his icy cheek before you eventually came to rest just shy of his ear which was burning from the cold. 

‘I know ways for us to keep safe and stay warm, you know,’ you purred with your voice turned darker, drawling your seduction into his ear. His hand digging into your waist, he kept you upright, even as you pushed yourself away from his face, grinning, and your eyes lit up by mirth. 

‘The couch is a perfectly good place.’

‘Is it now?’

Your eager nod was followed by a measured pause for added effect, in which you started to let your nails trail up and down his arm. 

He waited for your answering smile that slowly spread out across your face, fully aware that you knew of his immense dislike for tea. 

A barely-there sensation that had his skin tingling; the pulse of the powerful man in front of you sped up as he patiently waited for your spell to expand.

‘There are blankets we can snuggle up in, watch a movie… in front of the fire, and…’ you grinned, ‘I bet the water in the kettle’s still hot if you want tea, that is.’

‘Me? Wanting tea? Or is that you already craving another cup?’ He squinted at you, an eyebrow raised and he played with a loose strand of hair that had escaped its braid. 

‘You got me...’ By now your hand had found its way around his neck, where you absentmindedly started playing with the curls peeking out underneath his beanie, ‘...but speaking of… when we’re already in the kitchen we could start on dinner, before doing anything else. Reheat the soup perhaps?’ 

You had just finished brushing his hat off, superfluous now that he was inside, and began running your hands through the recently exposed locks when the sound of your rumbling stomach interrupted you and caused both of you to break out into chuckles. 

‘Good point. For that to happen you would have to let go of me first though. Any chance of that happening anytime soon?’ He asked, without showing any attempt himself to remove your hold on him, having just tucked the curl of hair he had been toying with, behind your ear. 

You uttered a ‘nope,’ accompanied by a shake of your head. Then, you pushed yourself up, detangling your legs in preparation, trusting that Henry was anticipating your next move. 

 Routine, as if it was one of the simplest things to push yourself up and have him catch you, Henry secretly gloated with how you never wanted to let go, although that fact remained unvoiced. 

Henry, who took a step back just as you pushed yourself entirely off the couch in one graceful, fluid motion, during which he straightened up, his hand gliding over your arms, following them to where they came to rest at the back of his neck, making sure your grip on him was secure, while the other came to rest underneath your legs, hoisted you up in his arms.

He then proceeded to walk over to the secluded kitchen area seemingly effortless holding you in his arms, evidently unbothered by the added weight.

He hummed lightly as he got a whiff of flowery, fresh scent. The pleased expression on his face that he didn’t hide, betrayed how much your affection appeased him.  

‘Is that the bath oil I got you a while back, that I smell?’ he asked instead, inhaling on purpose this time - intent on confirming his speculation - taking in undertones of peonies and lavender.

You ‘mh-ed’ in agreement. ‘It’s my favourite now,’ you reminisced briefly of how the salt, besides the lovely smell, left your skin feeling smooth and hydrated after use without creating a sticky residue, like some of your cheaper ones did. 

Henry grunted in response and stopped in his tracks. ‘It’s rather distracting.’ He closed his eyes as you continued tickling him under the crook of his ear, and you felt his hands digging into your thighs as the grip on your legs tightened. 

You then gave in to the temptation of burying your face in his inviting neck, to nibble at his skin; tracing your tongue over the musky remnants of dried sweat.

‘What are you doing?’ He asked, swallowing a lump in his suddenly dry throat.

‘Getting you warmed up,’ you replied in a tone that said ‘obviously.’ 

When he regained his bearings, he shifted you in his arms; your body now solely supported by one elbow nestled under your upper thighs, propping your entire body up. Successfully managing to free one arm so he could open the kitchen cabinet, that the two of you had just reached.

‘Reheating soup’s not too complicated of a job, I think you’ll manage,’ you commented on his objection, as you reattached your lips to the juncture of his neck and his shoulder. 

You spent a few moments like this, snug against your personal heater, but keeping tabs on Henry gathering the leftovers and you ensuring he used your favourite dishes, had you straining your head, awkwardly trying to follow along with Henry’s actions.

Since you were pressed tightly against a pec-laden torso, however, nothing seemed to be working in your favour, no matter how many times you shifted your head from left to right. Upon realising your predicament, you let out a frustrated whine and after you had finally accepted your ultimate defeat, you let out an exasperated ‘that’s not working.’

In your triumph, you couldn’t help but glide a hand over the vast expanse of his back, which was so gloriously presented in front of you before you laid your head over Henry’s shoulder. 

Before Henry - who had bemusedly watched your antics - could let go off you, an idea had already popped into your head: 

between your nimble work, the help of the countertop and Henry - ever so quick at intuitively sensing your next course of action - turning around to comply with your unspoken instruction; you soon managed to latch onto his back with a jubilee: ‘Much better! So much better.’ 

It took a lot of wiggling and shifting around for you to comfortably settle on his back, your legs straining to reach all the way around his wide hips. One of his hands had flown back to you as soon as he had felt your body join his anew: a barely-felt contribution to the weight he always carried around with him.

“I didn’t know I was a jungle gym,” he quipped, as he started picking the fridge to fix a salad; his voice was light: amusement and satisfaction in equal measure oozing off of him. 

The musky and familiar scent of your favourite man greeted you as you nestled against his muscled back. Much more content in your new position, you left his remark un-commented, watched as Henry cut slices of rye bread and the two of you started to pitch ideas about what film to watch this evening.

Soon after, a deafening crack of thunder followed suit and reverberated through the walls. Withered stone palpably vibrating with the aftershocks of nature's spectacle. The wind outside picked up, knocked twigs and branches against the exterior of the tiny house, as the force driving it gained strength. 

After Henry had ensured dinner was sufficiently prepped, the soup quietly bubbling on the stove and his precious cargo was gently placed down on the sofa again, he quickly stole away to shower off the afternoon’s dirt, despite your loud protests.

As you settled down in intimate togetherness for the evening - a freshly showered Henry had returned to join you on the couch with two steaming bowls of soup in hand - the pitter-patter of the rain against the windows was mingling with the jingle on TV and the opening credits of your chosen film commenced on the small screen.

Most of your dinner had been consumed - the hearty soup quickly devoured after the days activities - when, out of a sudden, lightning flashed through the dimly lit room, illuminating both your faces and casting the interior of the room into eerie shadows. 

He knew how much you hated thunderstorms: past pictures of him holding you tight throughout nights of storm back in your flat flashed before his eyes and he dreaded that you had to endure the anxiety that those deep explosions awakened inside you. 

The echoing sound was ringing in your ear. The beat of your own heartbeat thundering picked up. Your breath was coming in short bursts and you closed your eyes in an attempt to calm your racing heart.

Henry felt you stiffen beside him: he brushed his hand over your hair, one of his arms subconsciously pulling you closer, tighter, against him; cocooning you into a fort of blankets and him. 

Tonight, he sensed, was going to be worse. Much worse. His mind began to reel: doubting the trip itself, doubting that he had brought you here over this weekend, in particular, questioned why he hadn’t checked the forecast one more time. 

So he wouldn’t have brought you high up in the mountains where storms seemed to nestle in the crooks and crannies between high altitude and valleys. 

And the cottage... only bricks and stones separated the two of you from the harsh outdoors - providing so little shelter. Exposed. To rumbling thunder penetrating every orifice, every nook and cranny. Claiming the warmth inside, taking over and snitching it away. 

Henry shoved the intrusive thoughts aside and searched in his mind for ways to keep you comforted but black visions still riddled him:

All the merits that had played a part in the appeal of the getaway that you two had been looking forward so much: being as close to nature as possible, nestled away from civilisation and cameras, a weekend for just you and him and the primality of stripping worldly worries back to nature, seemed to have come back around, to haunt you in full force tonight.

Since the wind hadn’t let up at all, only gained speed it seemed, Henry felt you tense further in his arms.

‘Relax my love, nothing’s going to happen to us.’ The words were murmured through lips pressed into your hair. ‘You’re safe, we are safe.’

To his relief, he felt you lean back against him almost instantaneously, although the pinpricks of your fingers still pierced his forearm, where you were clutching him tightly. 

Your face turned back around to the screen, you focussed on the sound of the rain, absorbed the warmth of the fire tenderly stroking over your cheek and let the heat of Henry’s body seep into your own. 

Your fist gripping onto him clenched taut and turned white, just as another explosive grumble of the sky rolled through the house.

‘Just focus on me and the movie, okay, my love?’ He kissed your head, and as he let himself sink back against the cushions of the worn-out couch, taking you along with him you tried to follow his advice. 

You had just calmed down enough and were about to delve into The Holiday but another crack in the clouds caused a beam to flash through the room; with a click, the tv screen switched off and the lamps turned dark after giving a last, valiant, buzz. The electricity had cut off. 

Having been pulled into the darkness with the light of the lamps vanished, even the rain lost its appeal; soothing patter was gradually transforming into insistent fingers tapping against the frail windows.

‘So much for focussing on the movie,’ you half-heartedly joked, a strained attempt at a laugh to diffuse your rising panic.

‘I think that was the main fuse,’ Henry returned, mirroring your effort. 

Looking through the glass; the view distorted by trickles of water meandering across the invisible surface, vague figures lurking in the darkness leered at you, the rotten bark of the trees contorted into grimaces. 

Their spindly arms reached out towards the cottage and traced along the veins of the stone structure in a gruesome caress.  The rain gutter overflowed; groaning as it was under the weight of the water masses it drowned out the sounds of friendly woodland spirits, who fled into their safe burrows and nests.

 The forest - made inhabitable by the steady stream of water flooding the earth around - turned void of gentle fauna and instead spawned abhorrent creatures creeping through the undergrowth. 

Sounds of their claws digging into the ground muffled by the debris on the floor, they cackled and sneered as their deformed bodies crouched along, their silhouettes moulding into the bushes. 

Elegant motion intrinsic to deer and fox replaced by artless ungrace as the pesky things gathered for their torturous ritual, uncaring as they were they trampled and stomped over the delicate blooms of meadow saffron; favouring the alluring blackness that arose as soon as dark clouds eclipsed the bright moonlight.

Henry turned your face away from the terrors outside with his fingertip under your chin and you were greeted by a bed of glowing embers that posed a welcome escape from the grim outside. 

You blinked the hideous away, cuddled into the big bear and, momentarily relieved, you turned your cheek to the heat radiating from the fire. The thunder in the background grew faint, turned into a low rumble in the distance - barely perceivable over the combined sound of Henry’s heartbeat and that of the fire crackling away. 

You tuned out his words, his deep rumble encasing you in a blanket of comfort; his tale became secondary as his touch dispelled your unease and gave way to a low simmer that seemed to ignite deep down, in the very core of your being. 

You watched the merry dance of the sparks, mesmerised by the play of light: shades of orange leapt up and were flickering away to a mild yellow at the outer cusps of the flames, deepening towards the heart of the flame, into a deep, permeating crimson.

‘Close your eyes and listen to me, love.’ Henry’s melodic voice joined the musical choreography of the toying flames, his hand stroking up and down your arms. His long legs covered yours, entwining your bodies as much as your current position allowed, he began to recount. 

His hands proved steady pressure on you, gliding up and down your arms in soft strokes, up towards your shoulders where they kneaded away residual tension. The rough pads of his fingertips were trailing over your exposed skin: he had tugged the hem of your top aside and was tracing along the stitched rim. 

He continued exploring the structures of your body: travelled from your neck down to your collarbones, drew circles into your skin, then followed the same path upwards, in his wake tattooing the sensation of his touch into your marrow. His fingers learned the shape of your face, tickled the spot where chin merged into neck, and teased the lobe of your ears. Rejoicing in the low purr he received from you. 

His fingers took the same route repeatedly, only straying away from their designated path now and again to tease along your nape, down your hairline, taking one of your braids in hand and twirling it around his finger, all the while continuing the account of a fable in his smooth timbre. 

After a while his hand disappeared under your shirt, surprising you with the roughness of his calloused skin gliding over yours. His course was unpredictable as he delved deeper into an exploratory journey of your upper body. 

Suddenly, a thunderous boom loud as a canon erupted and brought distress to your homey den. Your head had snapped up straight away. You could feel your blood coiling, terrified frenzy taking over the low glimmer your boyfriend had ignited in you as you worried what lightning would have needed to strike to evoke such a violent reaction. 

Your eyes blinked rapidly and Henry felt your heartbeat pounding under his hands. His careful work had been undermined in seconds by the force of the elements that you were exposed too.

Quick-witted he felt a change of tactics was in order, with swift, capable movements he turned you around, picked you up with such ease, as if you weighed nothing, and then arranged his spread legs so that you could comfortably settle onto his thighs ... 

****

... to be continued in part 2 (coming... sometime)

tagging: @iloveyouyen @mary-ann84 @geralt-of-baevia @princess-of-riviaa @agniavateira @wolvesandhoundshowltogether @madbaddic7ed @littlefreya​ @thelastsock​ 

warnings/tags: dub/con, kidnapping, implied sexual intercourse, hinted virginity, hinted smut (I don’t even know how to tag this, I just.. wanna be on the safe side? This is also just part one) banquettes, dancing, umm The Tudors?

a/n: this was supposed to be a quick drabble and turned into 2k of me playing around? I don’t even know. This is apparently what happens when I develop a strong fixation on Charlie, (and yes I do call Charles Brandon Charlie) and I can’t decide what scenario I love more, so multiple ideas brewed in my head for a bit and now we have this as a preliminary end result. Please head the warnings as the short synopsis of this story is that Charles has set his eyes on a ‘pretty little thing’ and receives her as a gift from King Henry VIII (wtf why is this my life now?) While there will be no sex in this part, it is still heavily implied that sex will happen, under dubious circumstances. Who can say no to a King? Not because he’s irresistable, but because we all know what happens to people who don’t do as they are told in The Tudors. If this is not your thing, or you presume you don’t want to read about dub/con be warned, this might not be for you. Otherwise: Please enjoy :)

Thank you @wondersofdreaming​ for reading this over, it’s much appreciated.

I am dedicating this to @wolvesandhoundshowltogether​ A very happy birthday to you! (and what a day it was, eh?) I’m also tagging some people who might enjoy Charles Brandon content: @yespolkadotkitty​ (for your amazing stories) @emelinelovesjc​ (for feeding my love and adoration for Charlie with your amazing gifs)  and in general some peeps: @iloveyouyen  @henrythickcavill @littlefreya​ @geralt-of-baevia​ @princess-of-riviaa​ @madbaddic7ed​ @mary-ann84​

***

The light emitted by the candles in the great hall shines through the opened set of heavy doors, lighting up the empty corridors expanding in front of you. The noise level from the chatter and laughter of the people attending the banquette perceivable in the hallway, ebb away the farther your feet carry you. Your skirt, bunched up in your hands to permit urgent steps, rustles with every tap of your heeled shoe against the hard floor. You round another corner and sink against the stone wall in relief. Escaping, catching your breath. His eyes had set you ablaze. The whispered touch of his palm against yours had trickled its way down your arm. The impression of his aura seeping inside of you, spreading inside every fibre of your being. Scorching your skin with the simplest touch. Cheeks adorned with a rosy blush. The dance had left you more lightheaded than a goblet too much of wine ever had. Entirely new. Entirely unfamiliar. Entirely forbidden. Yet as you lean against the cold stone wall, the heat aflame inside of you slowly dwindling down to turn into a low and persistent flicker, you can’t help the image of lips appearing before your closed eyes. Tinted with red wine, they curve up in a mischievous smirk. Your finger traces along your bottom lip, dragging it down, revelling in the feel his eyes elicit in you. Teeth sink around your finger, tasting his musky scent that had left its remnants on your skin. The slow and permeating string of the fiddle picking up its tune again transports you back to the hall, his fiery eyes. The pull back and forth as you melt under his attention. Voices and people drown out and reduce the world to you and him dancing under the baldachin of the great hall. The glow of a thousand flickering candles illuminate the dancefloor; placed in pompous candleholders along the walling, in chandleliers suspended from the high ceiling, on candlesticks perched on full buffet tables in between rich, decadent foods and decanters of wine. The skirt of your damask dress swinging with every twirl guided by his touch. Bare to his gaze. Undressing you. The chime of your laughter mixing with that of flute and fiddle as they spiral upwards in a playful dance. Footsteps thud down the wall, getting more insistent as they announce an intruder to disturb you in your musings. A small part of you hopes it’s him coming after you, the part of you that had been left unexplored, dormant until this evening. A different part fears the consequences of what might happen if it is indeed him, unable to resist his pull much longer. Torn between reason and temptation your eyes widen and your mouth falls open when the intruder appears in plain sight. As you come to your senses you sink into the deep bowed reverence required for: “Your Majesty.” You muster him through big eyes, manners only now resurfacing after the initial shock fades from your blood. “My Lady,” he nods, motioning for you to stand up, an order you don’t deny and stand up with shaky legs. He steps closer. Menacing. Tremors run through your body and you hold your breath, preventing the surprised pained whimper arising in your throat to escape. “Fret not, fair Lady. There will be no harm,” he states, gaze relentless. Cold blue eyes piercing, travelling up and down your frame as he takes note of every part of your body; leaving you vulnerable and exposed to the sudden, unwelcome chill from the scrutiny of His Highness. Absentmindedly, he ticks his finger against his lip. One, two, measured strides and he towers over you, a laugh playing across his Majesty’s mouth as he strokes over his chin, considering you. “He’d always had a skill for picking out the finer things in life. No question.” His comment hangs in the air, addressed to no one in particular and you wonder what to make of it. Despite his earlier reassurance not to worry fear spreads in icy prickles through your veins. You’ve never been in this close proximity to the King and the natural authority radiating off him leaves you breathless. The divine order forcing you to cast your eyes down, as you let him scrutinize you to his heart’s content. A quick prayer is sent to heaven that he wouldn’t hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears as you wait for him to continue, to reveal his intentions. He’s presented with the urge to reach out and touch, feel alabaster under his exploratory hand tremble. Alas, you’re not for him to enjoy; he resists and takes a step back again. A knowing look flits across his face when he observes your chest heaving up and down, eyes petrified in their sockets as they fixate on a point on the floor and quickly glance at him before they’re cast back down. He huffs out a sardonic laugh, claps his hands together when he turns on his heels and motions for someone to step forward. His heels clicking on the stone floor, echoing from the cold castle walls. To your horror you see one of his servants approach at his command; a heavy, dark cloak clutched in hand.

“It’s her, I’m certain of it. Bring her to my friend.” His Majesty orders as the servant sets to secure the cloak around you. Under the ever-insistent gaze of the King, you stand still, letting the servant finish his task. You stand frozen on the spot; you daren’t move a muscle. He addresses the servant once more: “You know your instructions. I believe they shall suffice…” he trails off, distracted for a moment, then continues with his head cocked to the side: “On closer inspection, tell him… Tell him that, although I couldn’t resist seeing for myself what gem he has found I have left her untouched… Yes, that shall please him. I’m sure of it. Now go.” He dismisses the two of you with a quick wave of his bejewelled hand.

Anxious to see who the friend he spoke about was you follow the servant in dejected silence through what seems to be endless corridors, turning corner after corner and always another stairwell in your way. Up and down, left and right. Leaving you to wonder whether the servant was instructed to be deliberate with detours. The only company is the sound of your shoes clinking against the hard stone, the light of a torch suspended from the walls every now and then and the sound of the courtiers at the banquette getting fainter the farther into the heart of the castle you are led. Finally, he comes to a halt in front of a wooden door, knocks twice, waits for the answer from inside the room and enters swiftly, leaving you waiting a few steps behind the threshold. Denied a peek inside to elevate your curiosity that is as prevalent as the fearful prospect of the next actions, you wait obediently. A flicker of warmth from a fire crackling inside the chambers your only solace. You listen in to the exchange of words, waiting for the voice inside to reveal the unidentified inhabitant of the chambers. “Your Grace.” A pause. Waiting for permission to speak further. “His Majesty the King sends his warmest regards and means to thank His Grace for your sustained service to him.” After what seems to be another pause in which the servant waits for His Grace’s acknowledgement, he fumbles for his words as he continues: “I am speaking His Majesty’s words when I express…” The following words are drowned out by your ears straining to hear a response. Desperate to know he who remains hidden in the auburn glow of the room. Instead of the feared cackle of a withered man it’s a deep, melodic voice that answers the servants’ comment in a familiar rhythm. “Do go on, count me intrigued about the present.”

The boy turns to where you’ve waited for instructions, waves for you to step inside and reveal yourself to the mysterious man. You carefully toe inside the room at his request, immediately greeted by the warmth of a fire crackling in the corner and come to a halt, your head respectfully bowed. Shaking fingers glide to the thick fabric of the hood obstructing your view. You take it off, place it so it comes to rest on your small shoulders, hood falling down your back. Your face now fully exposed to the bedchamber, except for a single strand of hair that has escaped their prisoning pins and now frames your left cheek. Your breath catches in your throat as you look up when the mystery man is revealed to be no stranger at all. “Your- Your Grace.” The first syllable catches on your surprise to see the Duke of Suffolk having left the banquette uncharacteristically early to withdraw to his chamber. “I thought the dress looked familiar,” he hums, the smirk that had sparked heat in you earlier returns and serves in making you lightheaded again. He strides forward, eyes trained on his present, he closes the distance between you. Tension getting thicker with every step he takes forward. Even the quick glance to the servant idling in the doorway, waiting for further instructions, doesn’t take away from his charisma that keeps you captured. With a raise of his eyebrow he nods to the boy: “You may leave. I will make sure His Majesty receives my thanks in person. Tomorrow.” And returns his attention to you, just in time to see you swallow a lump of nerves. “Now…” he says, voice dripping with unspoken desire hanging thick in the air around you. His hand reaches out to relieve you of the heavy cloak keeping you wrapped up, pulls on the strings of the hood tied in a bow with gentle force. Watches it fall apart under his hand. Eyes lingering on the valleys of your breasts pushed up and out of the tight corset of your dress, gaze moving upwards and along your neck, over to your lips, coming to settle on your dilated pupils. Fingers grazing over your skin, catching on your collarbone. You suck in a breath. Eyes flitting in mild concern of what will come next, even though you want to answer his fiery look with a steady one of your own, your inexperience hinders you. Another low hum. Then, he reaches around, grabs the cloak in one hand and pulls it away in a swift motion. “Too heavy for someone as delicate as you, wasn’t it love?” “Yes, Your Grace.” The words a mumble, the proximity overwhelming you. “Tell me…” he starts, a hand reaching out to the loose curl hanging in your face that you didn’t dare brush away. He twirls it around his finger, watches as he manipulates it into another curl before he places it behind your ear. Upon pulling away, his finger brushes along your pulse point, raising goosebumps in his wake. His focus returns to your face, where he meets timid eyes blinking up at him. “… do you play cards?” He smiles, a waft of his musky scent permeating your senses as he whirls around towards his seating area. “I do, Your Grace.” “Well, then dear, come sit down,” he motions for the stool at a table across from the one he has relaxed into. A small smile lights up your features and his words warm you up. You regard him with a shy glance as you take hesitant steps towards him. The cloak lays forgotten on the ottoman at the foot of a four-poster bed, a few metres away. 

A/N continued: Inspiration struck and when it does I am not one for influencing where it takes me. 

Inspiration for this comes from me studying The General Prologue of Chaucers Canterbury Tales? Because for some reason reading that made me go !!! Charles Brandon Smut!! Apparently, Middle English gets me hot and bothered? Or at least the writing style or word choice inspired my smut brain? Who even knows at this point? 

I was also listening to Lately (feat. Devlin) by Ed Sheeran, so that also influenced this a little bit. 

Because the tale is a pilgrimage, it got me thinking about religion. In addition to sex in the 16th century being tied to religion so heavily, (or anything really for that matter), I do feature quite a lot of these themes. (Or practically that’s all it is?)

If you made it this far, just enjoy it? And please let me know what you think of it.

Thy Kingdom Come

When she leaves the chambers a good while later, full of regret that she can’t stay cuddled close to that bear of a man throughout the night, to wake with the rooster at the dawn of the new day, she finds the servant boy waiting for her. She ducks her head, surely he witnessed the sounds coming out of Charles’ bedchamber; there was no way he could have missed them.

Her insistence she’ll be alright on her own, that he does not have to accompany her back to her room when the disgrace of her coupling with the Duke of Suffolk hangs heavy in the cold air of the castle walls between them, is met with the insistence of the King’s orders she be safely guided back to her own chambers.

It takes a lot of bargaining, including a coy batting of her eyelashes and a few subtle compliments woven into her insisting, before she eventually proves successful in her reassurance that she will find her way back on her own.

She even finds she was right about the suspected detours, because when she finally shakes him only a few corridors over, she sinks against a familiar stone wall. Her skirts rumpled; her hair not as meticulously tied up as at the beginning of this eventful soirée. She aimlessly tugs the lace covering her dress into place. The cocky smirk ever-present with Charles had returned when he helped her back into her robes.

Her fingertip returns to trace over her now puffed up lips, the stone cooling her heated cheeks once more. She feels the pressure of his lips against hers, his musky scent lingering around her… A phantom feeling of lips working their way up her thighs has a now familiar heat arising between her legs anew.

When she closes her eyes and concentrates, she is certain she can feel his taste lingering in her mouth.

Although she did not fully grasp the sudden change from innocently playing cards with the Duke to him offering her a taste of the forbidden fruit. All she remembered from their joyful past-time was the insistent tapping of his finger against the cards, that he held firmly in his caress. The movement igniting the glow slowly simmering inside her and the heat in his eyes as they traced all over her features setting it ablaze.

She remembered how the bed, visible from the corner of her eyes, had distracted her with promises and taunts of uncomely unity reserved for a couple joined in holy matrimony. A distraction so daunting that she accounted it responsible for her losing to His Grace over and over, round after round of her favoured card game. Determination to gain the upper hand undermined again and again.

The tension between them building with every tease spoken until it cracked, the stool clattering with an earth-shattering sound on the stone tiles as it scraped back over the floor, the Duke of Suffolk rising up.

Patience and Decorum had run their course; they were cowering on the floor by the collapsed stool. He strode over to his price in two measured steps, paying no mind to the two creatures now that they had served their purpose.

He had locked his lips with hers, guiding their two bodies in a sensual dance towards the bed. When she fell under the guidance of Charles, her eyes darted heaven bound, the Lord’s name escaping her lips just as calloused fingers grasped at her supple flesh covered by the thick material of her gown, all-new sensations beginning to spread through her.

The Lord’s name quickly evolved into a new chorus of praise: the crying out of the Dukes’ first name, a privilege most graciously offered to her by the man himself. He drank the sound from her lips, tugging her even closer to get more off her. Strong arms, defined from years of battle, gentle from years of acquaintance with women, welcomed her to his very own realm of devoted pleasure. A whisper of tenderness in her ear greeted her into his keep, the whispers wandered down, he breathed them into her skin. Garments being shed piece by piece under his ministrations. Her back digging into the mattress, body bowing to accommodate her new ruler.

She arched up and away from him, only to have her body return, following his every touch, anticipating his every move. The work of his ardent fingers let wings of ecstasy arise out of her body, spiralled her spirit upwards and vowed her ascension. Her chest rose up and down, gasping for air. Her hair, reflecting the glow of the fire, shone maroon, flowed around her head and framed her fair face, meticulous updo unravelled by capable fingers. The faint scent of mugwort wove its way upwards from under the pillows, stimulating her senses and grounding her to the chamber with Charles kneeling over her. The scent folded over the two of them, securing them where they were caught in hazy desire.

The temperature in the room had ten-folded, the air around them became hot and moist, just like the blood inside her that pulsed in her veins, detectable in her sanguine cheeks.

When she touches them now, she feels the traces of Charles puppeteering her into performing actions laden with sin in their hot evidence on her cheeks. The thought of the man alone sends a new wave of arousal flowing through her and a realisation manifests deep inside her, from now on she will crave this sweet nectar ripe with taboo. Leaving her wondering how to maintain her composure if -when- she meets him again. Her limbs quivering and the wetness gathering in the secret place between her thighs, provoked merely by the thought of him.

She shuts her eyes, an attempt to ignore the voice inside informing her about the repentance she will have to face as an onslaught of scenarios manifesting in her mind hit her.

Of him. Him kissing her lips, down the valley of her breasts, down her navel, to meet the joining of her legs, the tip of his tongue sneaking out to taste her…

A low moan reverberates from the halls. Her eyes snap open and she frantically looks around, ensuring she’s still in her lonesome in this empty corridor when she realises the noise originated in her. To her relief she finds no witnesses, permitting her to give in to her daydreams again.

Come to think of, he hadn’t even claimed her maidenhead yet. Had unravelled her piece by piece, had coaxed her into a state of unknown frenzy, all from the gentle care of his mouth and his fingers, all the while meeting his insatiability with a hunger of her own.

She remembered how she had urged him on, her body moulding into his, how he sounded when he had asked whether she was certain before he had laid her down onto the mattress before he had fully committed to his sinful spiel. To his delight, he had noticed she was as untouched as all the other women he had shared his bed with prior had wrongfully claimed to be. Listening to her chime granting him consent, pleading for him to continue, to award her release as he wrought response after response out of her. Obeying when he told her to hold on just a little longer.

The uttered “Yes Your Grace” - atonement of their bodies mutual sin - turned quickly into his new favourite syllables. His moans of absolute bliss smoked out any ill intent one could have laid claim upon their supposed unrightful joining.

She slowly comes back to herself. Icy fingers of the cold stones she’s surrounded by tone down the rising heat in her, lure her away from the bedchambers that she visited again in her mind. The digits pull her back to reality, although the thought of Charles still invades her mind. She idly considers how a joining like this could be her falling captive to devils play when the rapture she gave herself over to was salvation, accompanied by an ecclesiastical choir as tremors of pleasure shook through her.

She had found in the man that had embraced her so completely, a new parish to worship for the days to come and beyond them, guided by the halo of silent strength that environed him, his azure eyes beckoning her to her new calling as his devoted subject.

An unwillingness to have obsolete doctrines pose a detriment to her undertaking, she nods to herself once, pushes herself up and away from the wall she’s leaning against, she looks around the corridors, slowly retreating to her own chambers, memorising the path to and from the Duke’s chambers in her wake. Ready to give in to her newfound appetite; she intents on repeating this evening's actions with Charles. Offering him to conquer her very last defence.

Without the King’s knowledge.

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blair’s dad:

blair’s mom:

cody devlin:

mr. beake:

mr. rao:

kelvin cooke:

jackson white:

modesty holmes: 

cameron stroud:

daren northrop:

isadora white:

felicity grumman:

most of the other students:

a small portion of the other students:

the janitor: