#but breaking the regal facade for a moment thank you so much this warms my heart

[danganronpa-cyberspace]

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@danganronpa-cyberspace 's protag and Antag.

I love my well dressed fellow (Oh and Haruki Ig) /j

[random-imagines-blog]

All the Love {Thranduil x Reader Oneshot}

Requested by: @queenofmankind​ Wordcount: 3296 Summary:You show up uninvited to a grand affair, hosted by King Thranduil. There’s been some things left unspoken.

No matter how ornate your gown, or how beautifully braided your hair was, attention always went to the necklace that rested between your breasts. Silver, twisted into branches to make a teardrop like shape, framed the four pointed star within. It hung off of a delicate looking chain, but it was one which was extremely hard to break. Throughout your long life, it had never broken once, not even when you were a child and not as careful as perhaps you should have been. It was not only a beautiful piece of jewelry, but it was a sign of your life force. It was realized that if you were ever seen without it, it meant that you had fallen in love. Many elves had tried to have the privilege by courting you, but you remained stubborn and so the necklace had stayed. There was no one you had yet met who you would give your heart, your life to. The keyword in this being yet.

The rain was falling when you reached Mirkwood. You never minded the rain, but nonetheless, it was a relief when you were under the thick canopy of trees rather than out in the open. It was only when you saw the lights floating among the trees that you even realized you had reached your destination. A blonde haired elf approached, his hair as straight as the tree trunks around you. “Welcome, Lady y/n,” He said with a bow of his head. You chuckled, your fingers playing at your bottom lip.

“After all of the playing that we had done while you were a child?” You asked, raising an eyebrow. “You should know better than to call me a Lady. We both know I’ve never acted like one.”

“Calling you a mudcrab wouldn’t have been as nice a greeting,” Legolas said with a smile, welcoming you into his arms. He still smelled of the deep forests, you noticed. Your oldest friend had not changed much over the years, though perhaps he had gotten a little more serious. It seems like it had just been yesterday when you had been one of his carers, and walked him through these very woods to help him appreciate nature. It was something that he was born with, but you had helped him to look beyond the trees. To respect the soil as well as the roots, and the birds as well as the leaves.

“Might have gotten a few looks for that, you’re right,” You smiled. You weren’t opposed to getting dirty when you went on your little adventures. It was why he called you mud crab - because you would wander into the lakes and come back looking like some sort of creature. He let go of you, and you let go of him, once the timing was on the verge of being inappropriate. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“He’d want you to be here,” Legolas said, taking you from your guards to lead you to where you would be staying.

“He still has no idea, does he?”

“He might. One of his spies might have already told him that you’re here.” Legolas was, of course, talking about his father. Thranduil, King of Mirkwood. The most noble and regal elf that you had known, except for perhaps Elrond. “He claims to know everything that goes on in here, but we still have some secrets.”

“That’s good. I would hate for him to know what we used to call him,” You whispered the last bit in case there were, indeed, spies about. Legolas smiled, and stopped in front of a archway.

“This will be your room,” He told you, bowing his head as you walked inside. It was a bit dark, but airy. Little fireflies were buzzing their way around, landing on the wooden headboard. Not much had changed in the millenia that you had been away. You could well recognize that it was the same room you used to use.

“Of course,” You said, your guard coming behind you, bearing your things. He started to unpack on your behalf. Gowns came out of your bags and were hung from a thin but strong branch, coming in from the outside. An owl flew in and perched on it, keeping its wide eyes on what was happening. “Where is your father now?”

“There’s a concert in the main hall. The first of many, I expect. I remember the celebrations for his 6000th birthday, and there was a lot to sit through. This year is meant to be more spectacular.”

“Well, it’s not everyday that a King makes it to seven thousand years old, now is it?” You said with a faint smile. You had come for the last large birthday, and the one before that. Back in the days when there was a Queen, Legolas’s mother, before she had passed. You had been a friend of hers from childhood. That was why you were selected to be one of her son’s caregivers after she was gone. You could tell him stories that Thranduil could not, and help him to forge a relationship with his dead mother. “I’ll freshen up and then I’ll go down. See if I can give him a little surprise.”

“I’ll be watching for you,” Legolas said with a grin. He left you and your guards to prepare for the night ahead. The first thing that you did was change out of your traveling attire into a more respectable gown. You chose something in a muted gold, floor length, with a slit in the front to make walking easier. It was a bit low on the chest to show off your necklace, but had long sleeves so it was still modest. With your hair tumbling down, you thought it was most appropriate for the beginning of a long birthday festival. Your guards gazed as you finished getting ready, bringing on a sort of confidence in you. You weren’t one one of the royals, but rather the daughter of a noble and thus you didn’t get much attention. You were only invited to this because of Legolas but - perhaps, you might look like you belong.

“You look beautiful, y/n,” Your closest friend and bodyguard told you, taking a seat on the floor. There would be more than enough protection in the concert hall. He and the few others would stay in your room until you returned, then find lodgings as close as they could be.

“Thank you,” You said with a curtsy. You wished them all a good night, then followed the few stragglers left to the grand hall. It was the sound of the music that guided you more than the elves. It was far from happy, but rather, a tragic sort of song, a longing sound coming from violins. Leave it to Thranduil to be dramatic.

You spotted the King as soon as you walked inside. He was sitting on his throne, hair draped over his shoulders, attention on the band in front of him. Standing to his right was Legolas, with his hands clasped in front of him, playing the part of the Prince. He caught your eye and let go of the facade for a second, sending you a smirk which you returned before standing on the sidelines to watch the band. You nudged yourself in beside Haldir, who smiled at you, and indicated that he was pleased to see you without verbalizing in it. It would be a very bad idea to interrupt the music.

The song came to an end, then something more upbeat started. “Would you like to dance?” Haldir asked, holding out his hand to you.

“I would be delighted,” You said, taking a hold of it. It was not a slow dance, but it was not as if elves were known for jigging the way that other races did. But you gave it a little of your energy, eyes sparkling bright as you did a spin. He was a beloved friend from years ago, but it had been centuries since you had seen him last. It was wonderful to be in his presence once more.

“First, you show up uninvited,” A voice drawled, bringing your attention to a figure standing beside you. You stopped mid-spin, frozen in spot at the stares this brought. “And then you don’t even come and say hello when you do get here. I must say, you are one of the rudest houseguests that I have had in quite some time. And to my birthday, of all occasions.”

“Now now, Thranduil,” You said, letting go of Haldir’s hand so you could give a proper curtsy to the King. You noticed his eyes trail to your cleavage, but stopped at the necklace. It made you feel a little warm. “I wasn’t going to interrupt the experience of such a lovely band. I plan to stay for as long as you will have me, and would have come to you at an appropriate time. And as for being uninvited, I think you should ask your son about that.”

“I think I will,” Thranduil’s eyes flickered to his son who was still standing by the throne. I noticed him look uncomfortable at the glance, and walk to find someone to dance with. Some things never change. “You look well.”

“I am well, thank you,” You said with a smile. Haldir excused himself from his position beside you and went through the throngs of people who were still dancing. Even with the music still playing, some of the elves looked a little antsy for the King’s attention. It was a special celebration in his honor after all. “And you - you haven’t changed at all.”

“Older and wiser, though perhaps those are things that you cannot see,” Thranduil snapped his fingers and the band began playing another tune. One that you recognized as his favorite. You had heard it many times while you worked under him. “Would you care to dance?”

“It would be an honor,” You accepted his hand and fell into a perfect harmony with the King. And an honor it was - he could dance with anybody here. No one would dare to reject him, even if they had wanted to. They were all here for him, and here he was, picking you. The uninvited former nanny. A singer came onto the scene and gave a powerful performance of some passages, which you noticed Thranduil singing to as well under his breath. Where his hand and yours were clasped, you began to feel warm. And where the necklace sat upon your breast, that too was beginning to feel warmer. When the song came to a close, he bowed his head to you, and you curtseyed back to him.

“I’ll be just a few moments,” He said, barely moving his lips as he told this to you. No doubt you were the only one who could hear it, even with the enhanced ears of the others in the room. “I expect you to wait here for me.”

“Years, if I have to,” You risked saying, the tips of your ears growing red. A smug smirk went across Thranduil’s features, and you had just enough time to catch a glimpse of it before he headed back towards his throne to make a speech. He thanked everyone for coming out, he was honored to have them in his home, enjoy yourselves but follow the rules - the same speech he had given last year, you recalled. An elf came to you with a glass of sparkling water, which you accepted and sipped at while watching the display. Thranduil really was a good speaker, keeping eye contact with the adoring crowd throughout. He spoke about how everyone here was vital to his success as a ruler, and you thought - perhaps it was an illusion - that he looked at you as he said those words.

After the speech, the music picked back up, and finger foods started to arrive from the kitchens. You looked at the snacks with a sparkle in your eye but did not venture forth to take anything. You had been told to wait here and thus you would. You were as obedient as a perfect child, you thought, and your heart beat inside of your chest as you thought of what he might want from you. Elves were known for being aloof, nonchalant, emotionless.  Some certainly were, including the King that you were waiting for, while others had more man-like emotions. Like Legolas, who was still discovering his own. You were in the latter sort. You felt, and you felt things strongly, and you weren’t ashamed of that. Standing here, feeling like your heart was going to beat out of your chest - you never felt more alive.

You remained silent as you waited, though a few had asked you to dance. You only shook your head politely and sipped at your water, smiling softly at anyone who tried to get your eye. Thranduil had disappeared briefly, as had his son, but when they reappeared, it was not to the throne but it was to beside you.

“Why don’t you find someone to dance with, Legolas? I do recall that I had Lady y/n here give you lessons as a boy.”

“Yes, I hope you’ve kept up with those lessons,” You said with a mischievous look. Legolas looked a slight bit uncomfortable but he did give you a smile and a nod.

“I am a prince, of course I remember how to dance,” He protested, before going through the crowds to find someone to partner up with. Thranduil lightly touched your arm, the bell sleeves of his cloak almost enveloping it from sight.

“I wish to speak with you alone,” He commanded rather than asked. He turned on his heel and walked out of the grand hall, leaving all of the food and friends alone. You looked over your shoulder to see if anyone was paying attention to you now, but everyone was so excited over the delicacies, you didn’t even get a second glance. So you left as swiftly as the King did - for you knew that it was far easier to do as he said than deal with his temper tantrums. There was a reason that you and Legolas had called him King PrissyPants.

You saw the tail end of his cloak spin around a corner, and so you followed it cautiously until you found yourself by the dungeons. “Are you really this upset that I came uninvited?” You asked, feeling nervous.

He finally turned to look at you, with eyebrows furrowed. Why, it even brought a wrinkle to his otherwise ageless appearance. “Yes,” He started. “Tell me - do you know why I didn’t invite you?”

“I didn’t really think about it much,” You admitted. “I didn’t take it personally, is what I mean. Perhaps because I’m just a former nanny?” You weren’t regretting coming at all - seeing Thranduil and Legolas was worth this grief, but you were starting to think it might not have been the best decision you’ve ever made.

Thranduil took a deep breath in, and then a deep breath out. It was really weird seeing him out of sorts like this. “No - that is not why,” He stared at you, hard. You could physically feel it. “It is because I do not plan on getting married ever again because of how heart breaking it was to lose...” He couldn’t even say her name, and you could not blame him. You felt sorrow for him, until you remember how this conversation had come about.

“What has that to do with my being here, Thranduil?” You addressed him by his name, rather than just his title. It felt more personal. This whole conversation felt more personal.

“When I watched you raise my son, it brought something out of my heart that I was never ready to admit to. Even now, I do not wish to say anything out loud. To me, the years since I’ve seen you last were long, but I was ready to move on, to attend to my duties as King. To focus all of my energies on Mirkwood. But then you came along once more, ready to ruin all of that.”

Damn your human-like emotions! You were close to a faint with all of the words that he spoke. Never had anyone come across as so romantic while so angry before. And angry he was - you could see that he blamed you rather than his own heart for these feelings. “I know you have cared for others in your long life, so you are more than capable. But has it really become so foreign to you that it infuriates you? Have you forgotten that love can be such a beautiful thing?”

“I have not forgotten, but neither have I forgotten the feeling of losing it.” Thranduil’s thumb grazed against his lower lip. It took restraint not to kiss him there and then. You weren’t just here for a good party, you were here to see him, and what he was saying - why, they were things you felt when you lived under his canopy centuries ago.

“As a King, I understand that you sometimes must dwell on the shadows for it helps you to find the light once more,” You said, your own hands going to the back of your neck, fiddling with the chain. “The sun always rises again, you know this as well as anyone. So I am going to give you a little something which I hope brings the dawn.”

The necklace fell loose against your chest. You kept hold of the chain, and held it out to Thranduil to take. He did not do so, but regardless, it wrapped it around his wrist with the pendant resting on top. “I’m not sorry that I came back for the celebration. I’m not going to apologize for coming back to you. I think that she would have wanted me to take care of you, as well as Legolas. So take this, and know what it means.”

You patted his hand, leaving the necklace with him, then turned and quickly went back to the party. You couldn’t make eye contact with anyone when you returned, your nerves were buzzing with the possibilities. Thranduil was a King - surely he would not want the heart of someone like you.

“Where is your-?” Legolas asked upon approaching you, but you hushed him, just like you had done when he was a child. You didn’t want any of Thranduil’s subjects hearing what he was going to ask.

“Hush now,” You said, taking his hands and leading him into a dance. “We’ll find out sooner or later, won’t we?”

It was sooner rather than later. Thranduil returned to the party after a few more songs. Around his neck, in a place of high honor, was your necklace. The pendant that meant your life, your love, your being, was close to his heart. He saw you dancing with his son and sent you a rare smirk as he took his seat upon the throne. That alone was enough for now. That was a serious sign that feelings were returned. If he did not return them, the necklace would have been sent discreetly to your room.

“I’m not calling you mother,” Legolas said seriously, once he saw what you had been looking at.

“I wouldn’t expect you too. Mud-crab is always fine by me.”

[ikesenhell]

The First Thing

You can find all other IkeSen/IkeVamp works of mine here! NOTES: AT LAST I RETURN. I made this almost explicitly to annoy @a-shout-to-the-void. I had to make an entire playlist to write this... you know that ‘boyfriend’ by Ariana Grande actually is very helpful for this? (and ‘bitches broken hearts’ by Billie Eilish, who knew) ---

When she started looking at him--really looking at him, investigating his features and cadence, memorizing the sound of his voice--she noticed his hands first. She never told him. If she’d asked what he wanted her to notice, she assumed Arthur would chuckle (in that delightful, infuriating, charming accent of his) and say, “Darling, aren’t there a thousand things about me you could look at?”

Famous author he was. ‘Pain in the ass’ could be added to that list. 

His mouth was a liar and she wished it would shut up more often (the man wrote Sherlock Holmes and couldn’t catch a clue, apparently; his motor-mouth flirtations drove her insane). His eyes went along with the facade. What a liar the body could be! 

But his hands? They were the crack in his armor. She learned the way he curled his fingers slow around mugs when he was thinking, curled playfully in teacup handles, rapped annoyance against his pockets. When nothing else in his flirtations gave him away, that did. 

(As much as it was the chink in his mask, it was hers, too. It was the first thing she’d liked about him. His hands made her think he might even be tolerable.)

The second thing she liked was his idiosyncrasies. She wasn’t too given to sweets--she’d always preferred savory things--but the day she rapped on his door to deliver a fresh mug of coffee and a block of fudge, he was too distracted to disguise them. 

“Set it down there,” he gestured, not rising from his typewriter (a horrific, spiderweb contraption that the Comte got for him and he so obviously hadn’t adapted to). “I’ll get to it.”

She set the platter down within his arm’s reach and set about collecting the other stray mugs around his room. When she turned, he was absently breaking off hunks of fudge and dropping it into the coffee, brow furrowed, chewing on his lip, pecking away with a single finger on the keys. It was almost charming. She thought about her grandfather doing his best with his home computer, hammering out emails punctuated with ellipses between his pointer fingers. 

“Has no one taught you how to type on that?” She asked. 

Arthur blinked owlishly over his frames at her. “Is there a certain way?”

Did Arthur Conan Doyle write by hand? She cast the thought from her mind and instead savored that he’d addressed her like a human being and not a snack conveniently wrapped in a skirt, that out of his vest and with his shirt slightly unbuttoned and the sweet abomination of chocolates in his coffee, he was almost lovable. She placed the last dirty mug on her tray and balanced it against her hip. “There is. There’s a hand placement that makes it easier. After that, it’s just practice.” A beat. “It’s sort of like playing the piano. Have you played?”

“No. I play violin.”

She almost asked, ‘like Sherlock Holmes?’ and thought better of it. “Well, I suppose it could be a little like that. Do you need anything else?”

“No. Thank you.” Arthur cast her a smile--a wonderful, ordinary smile. “I don’t suppose you’d teach this old chap how to type sometime?”

“I suppose I could do that, if Sebastian doesn’t need me at some point.”

Arthur’s eyes crinkled. “Well, do let me know.”

When she left the room, he was back to pecking away at the keyboard. She cast one glance back--he was slurping down the sludge of chocolate and sugar and coffee--and wondered if the warmth in her chest was something she ought to worry about.

---

The third thing she liked was his puppy. Vic was adorable; watching them cuddle and romp on the lawn behind the mansion warmed her heart. The spaniel bounded after her skirts as she hung the wash, rolled on her shoes and looked longingly up at her. 

“Hey baby!” His head was silky under her fingers; obviously, he was cared for. Arthur, panting, caught up a few moments later. 

“My apologies, my dear.” He played at an approximation of Napoleon’s bow, but too loose and formless, smiling all the while. It was so boyish and delightful that she smiled despite herself, heart surging. “It seems he’s gotten away from me. I’ll get him out from under you.”

“It’s no problem. I love dogs.” She scratched under the puppy’s chin, watching the tail wriggle on the grass. “I had one, actually. Her name was Neo, short for Neopolitan.”

“Neopolitan! What a divine name.” Arthur dove over Vic, nuzzling the spaniel. “Almost as regal as you, baby boy!”

She grinned and flapped out another shirt (one of Arthur’s, incidentally), pinning it to the line. “You’re not getting blood on your shirts anymore.”

“Am I not?” He shrugged, as if it were nothing at all. “Interesting. Vic! Want to play fetch?”

Vic yelped happily, darting away once more, and as Arthur cursed and scrambled to his knees after, she found herself watching as he ran. 

---

Seasons turned, and so did they. As gradual as the waning months from summer’s height into the shimmering twilight of fall, everything changed. 

“You know, my dear,” he said one night, hunched over the typewriter he still had not mastered (but he was using all of his fingers now at her instruction, which she considered a win), “I’m rather fond of you.”

“You’re fond of all women,” she replied easily, fixing his hand placement on the left. “You hit the ‘enter’ key with your little finger. Trying to use your ring finger like that is causing you problems.”

He wasn’t looking at the keys anymore. Those blue eyes were trained on her, mouth set in a long frown. “I’m serious.”

Was he? She faltered, uncertain of where to turn. Arthur showing vulnerability was almost impossible to comprehend. Was this a ploy? Was this how he lured so many women into his arms? Was this why his shirts were so often flecked with stranger’s blood? Come to think of it, that hadn’t happened in a while. 

“I…” She trailed off. “I don’t know what you mean by that. I guess I’m getting close to everyone.”

His correction was as swift as sharp. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“Have you seen blood on my shirts recently? I’m not out looking for any old skirt to bring home.” He peered intently at her, waiting for a reaction. She stood stone-faced. 

(Because what if he was just saying that? What if he--with all his quirks and humor and love of animals and quick tongue and razor mind--was playing the latest caper on her? What if he truly just thought she was someone to play with? What if this was all a sick game? Her heart hurt--it hurt, it hurt, it hurt under the weight of imagining him wrapping her in those arms, with the imagined long evenings in his room reading the latest books.) 

“What,” she scoffed, disbelieving, “should I give you a piece of paper to check off to ask if you ‘like’ me or ‘like like’ me?”

Arthur cocked a brow. “Would that clarify things for you?”

She turned on her heel and left, swinging the bedroom door hard behind her. 

---

Damn him, he was telling the truth. 

Quizzing Theo was exactly as illuminating as she’d suspected it would be. He’d noticed Arthur’s recent change--that he came home from the bars at the same time without vanishing into some side room, that he was ordering alcohol (which he never did when he was chasing a woman), that he was drinking blanc like water (and he was, she could vouch to that--he kept ordering it to his room). 

“Is there a reason for all the questions, Hondje?” Those piercing eyes cut straight through her. Determined to stay them, she slid another warmed pitcher of syrup to him. 

“I mixed it with butter this time,” she told him. “The way my grandmother did. You’ll probably like it like that.”

He frowned, placated for the moment, and tested it on a bite of pancake. Success; his whole face illuminated. “Not bad, Knabbeltje.”

“Glad you like it.”

Theo reached out and caught her by the wrist before she could turn away, expression serious once more. “He’s fallen for you.”

(And she wanted to say ‘Good for him’ and pretend not to care, but she remembered the way his shoulders curved over a piece of paper as he wrote with an ink pen, how he could take the tiniest pieces of information and discover everything about it, how he’d smuggled so many of the encyclopedias into his bedroom that the Comte caved and bought Arthur a shelf full of his own, how he smiled when he was really and truly enjoying himself.)

She swallowed. “How do you know?”

Theo released her and leaned back in his chair, scowling as if he’d never cared to begin with. “Pretty sure you knew that already. If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t be here asking me all this.”

---

It was raining cats and dogs that night, and she hadn’t talked to Arthur in three days. But he was heading out with Theo to the pub, and Sebastian was nowhere to be found, so she took it upon herself to find their raincoats. By the time she returned to the hall, only Arthur was standing there. 

“Where did Theo go?” She asked. 

Arthur shrugged and pointed up the steps. “He forgot his wallet.”

It sounded like a lie, but it wasn’t delivered like one. Arthur’s hands remained telltale still at his wrists, picking at the buttons. She draped Theo’s coat across the rack and held out Arthur’s, helping him into the sleeves. He let her adjust his raincoat, eyes never leaving hers, not once. She  just busied herself with the buttons. Then he took one step forward, gloved hands pinning hers to his chest. 

"I know what game you're playing," he whispered. Was he serious? Joking? It was impossible to tell. "You're waiting to see if I’m serious or simply indulging a passing fancy."

Theo wasn't back yet. She swallowed hard. "Am I?"

"You are." A pause. He trailed his nose against the ridge of her ear and she shivered. "If I break and pick up a skirt at the bar. If I come back with blood on my vest. If I have someone else's perfume on. You don't trust me--not yet."

Her fingers, somehow, were bunched in his vest. She tried to ease up, turned her head away from him. He just followed. The slope of his mouth skated down against her neck and she wondered what it would be like for him to leave a hickey there instead. Would it burn like her heart did around him? She could smell his cologne and coffee and fudge and ink and it all spelled ‘Arthur’ in cursive letters, etched in the most primal part of her soul. 

"Maybe," she hedged, breathless.

"No 'maybes', Love," he sighed against her. "But I'm a stubborn man. You'll see. I meant every word."

---

His whole body wrote love letters to her. 

She knew it, too. He was so touchy when she’d first arrived at the mansion, and now--now the gulf between them was thick with the promise of all he might do. Arthur lingered around her shoulders, his hands deftly handing her pins to hang the laundry when she dropped them in the garden, appearing as if summoned when she needed something from a high shelf. It made her ache. 

“You’re doing this on purpose,” she fussed at him in the pantry, soft so Sebastian couldn’t hear. Arthur smiled at her over his coffee mug, finger tapping. She was right. 

“Am I?” He evaded. 

“You are,” she pressed. 

“What, praytell, am I doing?”

(Making me want you so badly I could scream. Ghosting around me.)

“Being a fucking dick.”

Arthur’s eyes blew wide with surprise, and then he laughed so loud and genuine that Sebastian appeared around the corner and squinted. “My! That’s a turn of phrase I didn't expect.”

“You deserved it,” she announced. “I’m not taking it back.”

She still corrected his typing when she came through to fetch his coffee mugs. He was fast now. The metallic hammer of keys echoed down the hall, silencing only when she entered. Thick flakes fluttered past his windowpane, falling in sheets over the gazebo, and Arthur looked up with a paintbrush and a capful of white oil paint. 

She paused. “What are you doing?”

He scowled and motioned at the page. “Typo. That’s how I know I’m old; misspelling words that I ought to know better about. I found that it’s much easier to simply paint over the word, wind it back, and retype the blasted thing on top when it dries.”

Was that how White-Out got invented? She didn't mention that and instead commented lightly, “Smart.”

Arthur shot her a wink and a smile, turning in his chair and taking his coffee with murmured thanks. “What are you doing after this?”

“Nothing, I suppose. I was thinking about doing some journaling.” 

His smile vanished into nothing, fingers rolling thoughtfully along the ceramic mug. At long last, he said, “Is that pressing?”

“I guess not. Why?”

“Then stay.”

Somewhere above them, Mozart’s piano started, a sonata he’d been slaving on for months. Apparently he’d finished it; the notes glided through the ceiling, echoing against her hammering ribs. Arthur waited, silent and pensive. 

She swallowed. “What happens if I stay?”

“Nothing.” A beat. “Everything. Whatever you like.”

“What did you have in mind?”

Those blue eyes roved around the room, as if hiding all the things they could invent. “If I’m perfectly honest, I was thinking of a cuddle.”

“A cuddle? Just one?” She teased, propping her tray on her hip. “You Brits have to specify.” 

He chanced a grin. “Well, perhaps more than one cuddle. We could sit together on the couch, perhaps read a while. Something quiet. Would that suit you?”

Overhead, Mozart hit a sour note of frustration and fell silent once more. She inhaled sharply. 

“Two conditions.”

“I’ll have them.”

“One, I have to bring Sebastian his tray back. Two, I’m bringing you some rouge. You have to drink it beforehand.”

Arthur clicked his tongue, but smiled again. “You drive a hard bargain. I’ll take it.”

---

He was pacing when she returned, sleeves rolled back, a few books lying on the coffee table as if he would need to sell her on any of them. He didn't. She shut the door tight behind her and handed him the rouge (which he drank a little too quickly, fingers fumbling with the stopper as if he’d never seen the bottle before). 

“Well.” He slumped into the couch, bringing his legs up with him. “I laid out some novels--”

“Great,” she replied, and settled inbetween his legs to rest on his chest. “You enjoy them.”

Arthur inhaled. His pulse thrummed wildly against her ear, the smooth plane of him comfortable and easy. “Do… do you want any of them?”

“No. I’ve been working all day. I’m alright with resting.”

He chuckled and wrapped his arms around her shoulder, hands cool and nervous on her skin. “I’ll admit, I didn't expect you to just go for this.”

She paused only a moment before admitting, “If I didn't just do it, I knew I was going to be too scared.”

“Too scared for…?”

“Doing what I wanted to do.”

Arthur’s hand--one of those honest, understanding hands--slid upward into her hair, easing her body upward along his. He was all high-strung sinew and bone and flesh, reassuringly solid and hypnotizing. His mouth against her forehead was a relief; against her ear, a taste; against her jaw, a promise; against her shoulder, a tease. 

“Stay tonight,” he whispered in the curve of her skin. Only Arthur could make begging sound seductive. “Here, with me. Don’t make me let you go. You’ve only just arrived, I can’t possibly let you go now.”

She entwined her fingers with his (the very first thing she’d ever liked about him), relishing the ghost of his mouth against her skin, and then--oh, there he was, his lips near hers, and regardless of who leaned first she tasted him with abandon. She was more given to savory things, but when it was him, she supposed a little sugar didn't hurt. His tongue tasted of chocolate and coffee and moved so slow and smooth that when they parted, she gasped. 

“Please,” he murmured, and punctuated it by sucking on her lower lip (damn writers; they always knew how to end a sentence). 

“I’ll think about it,” she breathed, knowing full well the answer. “But you can try and convince me.”