#curls hair might make it my wallpaper somewhere hm.

[aqqleshiqqing-archive]

DONT WORRY

I GOTCHU FAM

NO YOU DIDNT HELL NAH YOU DIDNT NO YOU DI- UGLY CRYING

HSHJFJEHZH3HDJTBSD I APPRECIATE... 🙏🙏🙏🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️

[comfy-whumpee]

Revisiting

CN: referenced past dehumanisation/animalisation.

Something is wrong with him today. It’s not the usual moping around, where he curls up somewhere and doesn’t move until Alistair coaxes him out. It’s not the rebellious misery, where he acts as though there’s no point to anything they do. He’s had days where he’s flat and emotionless before, but his eyes have always focused when prompted. He’s always found his way back.

This Ellis is a drifting paper boat on a river, and Alistair is standing in its flow, trying to direct him.

He finds the poor thing on the living room floor, pressed up into the corner. His hands are in loose fists with his knuckles pressed against his throat on either side of his Adam’s apple. He stares forwards at nothing, knees to his chest, elbows tucked into the gap and defensive. He’s curled as if waiting to be attacked, but he doesn’t flinch or watch Alistair approach. He’s not on edge. He’s not even present.

His thoughts have floated down the river on a paper boat, and he’s been left behind.

Alistair sighs. The room is dim and grey with the evening light, and he knows if it had taken much longer, Ellis would have left himself in darkness and gotten even worse. But he’s here now, and Alistair can cast a line to bring him back to the riverbank.

“Oh, darling, there you are,” he says, crouching down opposite him, directly in his line of sight. “Why are you sitting in the dark, hm?”

There is no immediate response. He doesn’t even blink at the sound of his voice. His eyes don’t find his Master.

Alistair shifts forwards, pitching his voice as soft and low as a lullaby. “Come on, sweetness. Come back to me. You’re at home. Look at me, Ellis.”

Ellis’s lips move. Faintly, barely a breath carrying the words, he speaks. “House cat.”

Alistair’s jaw tightens. It’s what Vega called him. He’s back in that place, in that storage container with chains and collar, entirely in his own head.

“No, no, you’re not that. You’re my pretty pet.”

Nothing changes on Ellis’s expression but the first syllable of a response. Alistair knows what it is even without hearing it. Ugly.

Nonsense. Ellis is gorgeous, and with Alistair’s care, his beauty is perfect and pristine. But something made him forget. What caused this? There were no surprises, no parties, and he hadn’t been injured earlier in the day. Where could these thoughts have leaked from?

He isn’t responding. It feels like Alistair isn’t even here. The feeling chafes at him, sandpaper to skin. How dare Ellis ignore him? How can he ignore reassurance from the one who matters most? Alistair hasn’t made him to act this way, like there are bigger threats and bigger mercies. Alistair is supposed to be the only good thing he has. The only thing in his life full stop.

Ellis still hasn’t moved while he’s been thinking. He must have blinked by now, but his eyes are unseeing, frozen in place. He doesn’t unlock the bundle of limbs he has become. He looks as though he is barely breathing, waiting for the beating he knows will come when Vega comes to see him.

If Alistair touches him now, he’ll flinch, even if he should be able to see the hand coming. He might even whimper. Alistair hates both of those things… But maybe it’ll help.

He reaches out, slowly, and lays a hand on Ellis’s knee.

Ellis’s reaction is a brief, full-body shiver, and he’s definitely not breathing now. A faint, trapped noise leaves his closed mouth, a near-silenced whine. His eyes close. He prepares for pain that would only ever be a phantom of what was done to him. His broken bones healed, his fractures sealed, and he's fine – but somehow, he seems to expect that Alistair will squeeze, and all of those pains will come back.

Alistair strokes with his thumb, brushing Ellis’s skin through the thin cotton. “It’s alright, sweet thing. Nothing hurts. You’re safe.”

“For hurting,” Ellis whispers, eyes still tightly shut. “Ugly h-house cat.”

“No, darling, no,” Alistair says, trying to keep his voice level. He’s not listening. “You’re with Master, it’s me, I’m here. You’re home.”

Ellis shudders again, thin, short gasps of air coming in through his nose. “I hh-have a new owner,” he breathes, barely voiced. The words terrify him even as he says them.

His irritation spikes, and Alistair throws caution to the wind, yanking Ellis forwards, wrapping him in his arms and lifting him onto his rescuer’s lap into a warm and complete embrace. “Never,” he says firmly, crushing his limp captive against him as though he could stop them ever separating this way. “I’ll never let anyone claim you, precious. You’re mine. You need to be mine.”

Ellis doesn’t move. He doesn’t relax, or hug back, or burst into tears and thank his Master for saving him again. He doesn’t speak.

He won’t get better.

“He’s not here. He’s never coming back. This is where you belong, sweetness, always. I promise. Do you understand?”

He doesn’t say yes, Master. He doesn’t even nod. He just twitches once, like a flinch from the words. But the words are comfort, why would he flinch? Alistair feels his ignorance like a burn against his skin and he hates it. It’s not meant to be like this.

With a brief adjustment of his grip, he lifts Ellis into his arms completely, and stands. “You can have a nap in the bed,” he decides. “When you wake up, you’ll feel better.”

It’s as much a promise to himself as an order to Ellis.

Setting him down in the bedroom, he tucks the duvet around Ellis’s unmoving body. He makes a pretty doll, but not like this. Alistair doesn’t want this emptiness. It’s too complete. He had opened Ellis’s mind and carved out everything but himself, and Vega...had finished the job.

“Sleep,” he commands.

Ellis stares out from where his head was left on a pillow; his gaze rests on a featureless patch of wallpaper. The light brown of his eyes is a glazed terracotta. He’s gone.

Alistair turns the nightlight on, and draws the curtains, bringing the room down to an artificial night. He wants to brush his fingers through Ellis’s regrowing hair, but he can’t tolerate another flinch. He’ll do something he’ll regret.

“Sleep, Ellis,” he says. “Find your way back to me.”

The current of the river is fast and tumultuous, and the paper boat won’t survive.

[annhellsing]

Ruck

notes: i’m writing pokemon fanfic in 2020 as a form of self care and none of you can stop me! rating: t e e n ! pairing: piers / female reader word count: 1,354

Your house was once your gran’s, left untended by the old lady who promised everyone she’d die in Spikemuth. You live here, now, the thin townhouse that watched you grow only looks dingier. Piers drags his hand over the faded wallpaper, over blooming roses broken up by cracks or the occasional family picture.

It’s just like his house, familiar. Almost identical in terms of layout, all of them are. But his staircase is on the other side of the sitting room. He saunters like he knows the place, not quite owns it. He’s slept over once, maybe twenty times.

You’re slumped on the dull settee that could do with reupholstering. It’s covered in cigarette burns, he couldn’t guess what colour it was before gran’s purugly tore the armrests to pieces. You’re asleep, dozing after work. The fact that it’s only a little before supper and you’re this tired doesn’t sit right with him.

He tries his best to avoid the creaky floorboards. Next to the scratched coffee table and grandfather clock, Piers kneels and nudges his pale knuckles against your cheek. Under his hand, you flinch and slowly wake.

You turn your head towards him, unbothered by the sight of him this close. You smile, blinking back the fuzziness around your eyes from your nap.

“Marnie’s mad as hell,” he says. His thumb brushes over your cheek, it’s almost hesitant.

“And what d’you know about hell?” you ask, “hm, angel?”

In the wake of his embarrassed silence, you snatch up his hand. His knuckles are kissed, Piers feels his stomach drop. He accepts love gracelessly, with the gnawing sensation of worms in his gut. You watch him forget what he was talking about.

“What time is it?” you ask, shifting back a little on the sofa. Sitting up when you were comfortable is never easy. Piers cranes his head, looking at the face on the grandfather clock.

“Nearly five-thirty,” he says. You swear under your breath.

“I promised her I’d have a practice battle before she went to her aunt’s,” you tell him. He already knows. “She really so pissed?”

“She’s more forgivin’ than she looks,” he tells you, “watch her go an’ forget all of it by mornin’,”

“I’ll make it up to her,” you say, “the champion-whats-it’s comin’ up soon. She needs the extra trainin’.”

“Might’ve picked up your slack,” Piers says, you smile at him with sleep still in your eyes.

“She wanted to ask you in the first place, thought you might be too busy,” Piers gives a half-hearted shrug.

“Wish I was smart as her at her age,” he sighs, “‘cos she isn’t wrong, not even a bit. S’a lotta work, runnin’ gyms. ‘Specially when one’s none too good at it.”

You sit up with a force that would suggest you’ve fully woken up. Though a scolding springs to mind, your touch never hurts. You fit your palm against his gaunt cheek, seeking to give him the comfort he’s shown you.

“You’re better than you think,” you say, “the glitz’n glamour of them other gym’s isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. N’they who can’t see that’s too posh for Spikemuth, may they stay away!” you tilt your head to the side, searching Piers’ face for the hint of a smile you’re looking for.

He wouldn’t give it to anyone else, but right now he can part with it. Your grin is a little forlorn around the edges.

“You mus’ be starvin’, love,” you say. You turn in your seat and rise from the sofa, embracing the rarity of being taller than him. Your hands go to his shoulders, a light grip that never fails to ease his burdens. Piers considers the offer with thinly-veiled interest.

“Could eat, sure,” he says, his knees ache from the rug he’s knelt on a while, “f’you’re makin’ dry sausage cury, that is.”

You help him stand, taking his hands in yours when he offers them up. You’re both cold in here, the fire must’ve gone out during your nap.

“Got a pack’a those lyin’ about somewhere, I’m sure,” you tell him. Your smile’s got a bit more body, now. It makes his chest hurt that he stifled it even a bit.

“Could get the place warmed up a bit while you—” he starts, but your smile on your grows. Like a cat, it curls on your lips until he’s left very nervous.

“Not a chance, you’ll help me’n that’s that,” you say. You breeze by him, searching for your discarded shoulder bag. From it, you take out a great ball and give it a toss.

From it springs a familiar face. A squat, little Houndour appears on the carpet and begins to sniff one of the floral motifs. Tea stains and cigarette burns dot the shabby rug and the tassels on the edges seem to amuse your friend greatly.

“Hey, pet,” you say, the Pokémon turns at the sound of your voice. You gesture to the fireplace, “use flamethrower, thanks.”

An unconventional method, certainly, but he seems no stranger to it. He disappears under the coffee table and wastes no time in pouring a jet of flames onto the still-warm coals. A fire springs to life, chipper and bright. Your Houndour lies down in front of it.

“There we are, feelin’ warmer already,” you say, nudging Piers with your elbow. You loop your arm around his thin waist and guide him towards the kitchen.

“Used’ta cook with my mum,” he tells you. His arm folds around your shoulders easily, when there’s no one else around to see it.

“That so?” you ask, “any good at it, by chance?”

“Can chop all right, f’you wanna leave that t’me,” he replies.

You kiss where you can reach, spontaneously putting those smiling lips to his exposed collarbone. Piers stops, he stiffens up. He’s still a little cold, frozen in place though part of him imagines he ought to be used to this by now.

“What’s that for?” he asks, “not like you gave me much of a choice.”

“I love you,” you tell him. Your sly grin remains. He’s not sure why you say things like that with no warning. Just to see him blush? Piers stares at you, his jaw a little slack and his arm still tight around you.

He wonders if it might be ‘cause it’s true.

“Love you, too,” he says. He turns away out of habit when he blushes redder than a brick wall.

And your hand finds its way to his chin. There’s a part of him that wants to shrug you off, something quiet that insists this kind of gentleness is wrong. You stand with him in the doorway to the kitchen, making him look at you. You’ve teased him enough.

When you wrap your free arm around his neck, what you want becomes obvious. Piers sighs, leans in and lets you kiss him. Your nose is still a little chilled, brushing his cheek. But your mouth is warm, the kiss is softer than most he’s had.

He knows sharp, gnashing teeth. Nothing wrong with a bite to his lower lip, a hang dragged through his hair with the intent to seize and pull hard. It can be fun. Roughhousing in the name of love can be wonderful.

Though Piers feels that jolt again, the one that reminds him he’s ready to run, he knows your heart to be more sensitive than even his. He won’t wound it, even as his hand at the small of your back begins to pointedly shake.

You break the kiss, nudging your nose against his cheek with a smile as warm as the fire. Your hands fall away from him, you allow him to know a little peace before reaching for his wrist.

“You’re not the only one starved to madness,” you return to teasing as easily as breathing. He’s lead into your rusted-over kitchen.

The look in your eyes tells him that won’t be all the love he’s subjected to. And though the tug he lives with won’t let up, he follows after you.

[grapesundergroundblog]

Angst hmmm???? What about the worst nightmare for the lazybones, a reset! Ut,Uf sans and us paps going to sleep with their longtime s/o( say like 5+ years?) and waking up in the underground? Again.

Sans:

He doesn't often sleep, but being next to you is his favourite thing in the world. You're home for him, and he loves you infinitely. You kiss his forehead as he falls asleep on your chest, gently patting his skull. You know he doesn't sleep easily, but you always try to make it easier for him. You whisper a good night to him as you join him in dream world.

Sans wakes up with a start, sitting up quickly. Something feels wrong. He looks around the room. Where are you? Isn't this his old.. bedroom.. he swears as he gets out of bed, checking out the window. There's been a reset. He has to hold back tears, going back to his room to throw some stuff around in pain and grief. He never wanted to leave you. He wants you back. You made him finally feel like he was home, like he was going to be okay. He falls on to his knees as he breaks down, tears falling down his face. He can feel little cracks in his soul forming from the emotional and mental damage.

He has to try get back to the surface to find you again. You gotta be out there somewhere...

-3-

Red (UF!Sans):

He chuckles as he moves your hair out of your face, looking at you with a soft grin as he lies next to you. He rests a hand on your cheek, kissing you gently before curling up into you, feeling the safety of your love. Your soul flutters as you wrap you arms around him, both falling asleep in each others arms.

Red groans when he wakes up, feeling the cold hit him. He looks around for you before recognising the wallpaper. He sits up, staring blankly at the wall. Of course.. good things never last for him. Good things always come to an end.

He walks downstairs as Edge yells at him to come and eat breakfast before going to work. He doesn't touch the food, apologizing and saying he'll save it for later, putting it away into the fridge before leaving the house. He quietly walks to his sentry stand. He knows he might find you again if the kid breaks the barrier, but right now he's more concerned about learning why the kid reset. He could feel his magic flare up, trying to calm down.

He doesn't feel like trying anymore, but if it means he might see you again then it's worth hanging in there.

-3-

Stretch (US!Papyrus):

He's carrying you, who's wrapped up in a towel, to the bedroom after a bubble bath. Your both chuckling as he puts you down on the bed. You had a rough day, so Stretch has been making you rest all afternoon. He helps dry you off, making you laugh as he tickles your sides. His soul pounds at the sound of your loud, energetic laugh. Once you're dry, he throws the towel into the hamper, climbing into bed and holding you close. "You're so cute" he mumbles. "What was that?" You ask, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "Hm nothing. Just think you're cute s'all". You giggle, blushing "aw stop it you big doof". You wrap an arm around his chest, burying your face in his t-shirt as he laughs at you. "Hiding are we?" You chuckle, shaking your head. You look up at him. "Good night, honey" you kiss the end of the nasal cavity, settling down. "Night doll, I love you" he kisses your temple, wrapping his arms around you. "I love you too, Papyrus" you say through a yawn. You both fall asleep, content and happy.

When he wakes up, he's upset to find you're not in his arms and the bed is cold. Did he sleep in today? He yawns and stretches his arms, staring up at the ceiling. "Wait.. that's not my ceiling-" he throws himself out of bed and looks around. "No.. nonono" he takes a deep breath, feeling pain in his soul as sits against the bed, legs curled up against his chest. He wants your hugs, he wants to hear you voice, he- he needs you. He forces back tears as he gets up, walking out of his room, greeted by the smell of tacos. Hearing his brother's loud humming as he cooks is enough to remind Stretch that if this is another pacifist route, he might be able to find you again. "Morning bro" he smiles. "MORNING BROTHER!"

He can do this. He'll find you. He can get through this.

[sabraeal]

Could you write something with obiyuki plus getting themselves into awkward situations, cuz honestly these dorks have no idea what's going on 95% of the time.

(Part 2 of If Thy Set Thine Heart to Wooing)

It’s never been Obi’s job to be the center of attention, not as long as he’s been with Master. Not before it either.

He might have caused a distraction or two – knocking over barrels, setting free horses, and on one memorable occasion, scaring a whole coop of chicken – but his place has always been the shadows, unnoticeable as wallpaper. It’s been him that would wander into the kitchen for a hot bun and the freshest gossip, or share a drink with the off-duty guards and come back with a head full of the latest rumors. He’s the one people talk to, the one they trust with their thoughts and forget about when he leaves.

He’s not supposed to be the one rumors are about.

He’s not supposed to be seen at all.

Obi only suspects when he walks into the mess one evening and all conversation hushes.

That’s not – not strictly true. He had noticed the guards��� chatter hitting a lull when he passes them on the walls, how ladies he passed would lean toward each other and whisper behind soft hands, how –

How suddenly he would walk into the pharmacy, and all that would greet him were glares.

“Obi!” Miss’s smile pulls tight when she sees him, clutching her books to her chest. Things have been different between them of late, almost awkward. He’s not sure what’s changed, but it’s like – like he has too many limbs around her and not enough words. There’s a gulf between them, and he doesn’t know how to fill it, how to cross it.

“I didn’t –” She ducks her head, cheeks flushed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I was just on my way to the – the stockroom!”

“Oh.” The word falls dumbly from his lips. His hands sit by his side, useless. “I could go with you. Reach the things on the high shelves.”

“I –” Her eyelashes flutter like frantic heartbeats against her cheeks. “I’ll be fine. Izuru said they fixed the ladder.”

He laughs, and even to his own ears it sounds forced. “And you trust it?”

“Ah…” Her gaze skitters around him, settling somewhere past his shoulder. “I should – I’ll see you at dinner.”

He grimaces; tonight is his extra session with Haki. “I took an extra shift –”

“Right!” She slips right past him. “You’re – busy. Of course. I’ll…see you.”

Obi stares after her, lost. He’s not quite sure how he cocked up that conversation, but clearly he’s got a gift.

“What are you doing?” Suzu mutters, grinding his seeds with more force than Obi thinks is strictly necessary.

He blinks. “What?”

“What. Are. You. Doing?” He’s never seen Suzu angry – upset, yes, dramatically wailing in front of the university bulletin, of course, but angry? Never.

He’s not, not now, but there’s a hint of it in the way he looks at Obi, like he’d glare if he didn’t like him so much.

“With Shirayuki?” He sighs, shaking his head. “I wish I knew. She won’t –”

“No,” Suzu snaps. “With Mistress Haki.”

“Oh,” Haki yawns, offering him one of the mugs of chocolate her ladies have brought them. “You hadn’t heard those?”

“Wha?” He gapes, accepting the cup with boneless hands. he hardly even noticed how the ceramic burns at his finger tips. “You did?”

“It was bound to happen.” She shakes out her hair. It’s too long for anything but a civil fight, but Obi knows Haki’s more likely to take a roll with a stable boy than cut it.

“Bound to happen.”

“Of course.” She shrugs. “You’re a handsome, young, inappropriate man. I’m a beautiful, young, proper lady.”

He snorts. “Humble too.”

“False humility is not a virtue,” she snips, savoring a sip of her chocolate. “In any case – you’re my guard, people see us alone together, we get on…it was only a matter of time before someone suggested that your extra hours with me were spent in bed.”

He groans.

“Figuratively, of course,” she assures him. “The rumors put us as quite adventurous. You wouldn’t believe –”

He holds up a hand with a wince. “I’m pretty sure I’d rather not know, your ladyship.”

“Boo,” she says, lips twitching. “You’re no fun at all.”

“You should do something,” her ladyship says, as he makes for the door.

“Hm? Do what?”

She sighs, rolling her eyes aloft. “Do something about Shirayuki.”

He scrubs a hand over his face. “My lady –”

“Obi,” she says, carefully setting aside her mug. “I will be most disappointed in you if our lessons stretch long past these rumors.”

“That doesn’t –”

“Of course it does.” She gives him a warning look. “Sometimes, Obi, humility itself is not a virtue either. Just stupidity.”

Raised voices seep through even the thick door to the walls. Obi hesitates, hand hovered over where he keeps his knives – if he’s about to walk into an altercation, it’s best to be prepared for the worst –

Only to find Jirou standing over two recruits, spitting thunder like an angry god.

“W-we didn’t mean to, sir,” one of them stammers. they both stand a head above their commanding officer, but they cower like he’s twice as tall, wincing as he claps his hands to startle them into looking at him.

“It doesn’t matter what you meant to do, now does it?”

The other recruit swallows hard, rubbing sweat from his brow. “We didn’t – we didn’t know Lady Shirayuki –”

Obi throws the door open, making sure it slams against stone. “What’s that about Miss Shirayuki?”

Both their eyes go wide. “C-captain!”

Jirou frowns at the both of them. “You’re both on late shift for a month. And I don’t want to catch you two at this again.”

Obi trusts his second, but he still has to stop himself from calling the boys back and demanding answers. “What’s that all about?”

“Mistress Shirayuki was waiting for you down at the door to get off shift,” Jirou tells him.

He raises his eyebrows. “Shirayuki?” She’d been doing her best to all but avoid him for weeks now.

“Yeah. And apparently those two idiots have heard the latest rumors –” Jirou sends him a meaningful look – “and were…indiscreet with their words.”

“Indiscreet?” One day he’ll be able to do more than act as his second’s echo, but it’s not today.

“There was some speculation about the nature of your service.” Jirou clears his throat, lips twitching. “And a little about the position and duration.”

Obi scrubs a hand over his face. Ai yai yai. “And Miss heard all that?”

“It was flattering, at least,” he assures him, like somehow that will make it better. “I found them at it, didn’t even know Miss Shirayuki was there until she made a run for it.”

He stares. “Miss? Make a run for it?” She was more likely to give recruits an earful about spreading gossip.

“It was…graphic,” Jirou allows, with the sort of expression that tells Obi he’s feigning thoughtfulness to disguise his needling. “Maybe it upset her delicate sensibilities.”

Obi snorts. Miss is fresh out of those.

“Well, as you wish,” he sighs. “Though I have to say, she looked pretty…overcome by the whole thing.”

“Overcome?” He remembers her, out in the snow, the face she made when he called Haki mistress –

His mouth curls in a grin. “You don’t say.”

This late, the labs are empty, all the lamps extinguished – save for the one on the fifth storey, where he can see a slender shadow cast against the glass.

Obi huffs out a laugh, swinging from grated window to the next, boots digging into the icy stones of the university for toeholds. If his miss doesn’t want to be found, she might consider making her habits less obvious. After all –

He hesitates. But what if – what if she want to be found?

What if she wanted to be found by him.

He nearly misses a handhold thinking about it.

A mixture of snow and wind make opening the window with any level of stealth impossible. Instead he rolls into it, letting the wrought-iron frame bang noisily against the wall, watching her jump, whirling to see him crouched in the window –

And nearly dropping her beaker.

“Ah, it’s a good thing I’m here, Miss,” he sighs, setting the sloshing glass safely on her bench. “You’ll lose hours of work if you’re not more careful.”

Her mouth works soundlessly as he circles back to the window, flipping the lock shut. “Obi – what –?”

He leans, so casual, against her bench. “I hear you were looking for me?”

“O-oh.” She ducks her head, and in the chiaroscuro the lamplight casts, he can’t tell whether her cheeks pink shyly or not. “I thought you were still o-occupied…” Her gaze flicks up as she adds, “with your mistress.”

He grins.

“My mistress?” he manages, so even, as he steps closer. “Oh yes. She’s certainly been putting me through my paces.”

Her pained expression almost makes him give up the game; he doesn’t want to hurt her, not even if the cut is fictional, but –

She tosses her head, lifting her eyes to meet his, and all he can see in her is a challenge. “Good. I’m happy for you, Obi. That you’ve gotten what you want.”

He hums, taking yet another step closer. “You know, Miss, I’ve been chasing her for years,” he admits, conversational. If she could hear his heart, she’d know it was anything but.

She shuffles back, gaze faltering. “Years?”

“Oh, yes.” His mouth twitches. “I just always thought she was unattainable. Meant for far better than me, to be sure.”

Her mouth pulls flat, eyes taking that determined shine that had compromised his heart, so many years ago. It would have been easier not to love her, if what he loved wasn’t the core of who she was. “No one is better than you, Obi. You’ve always been – deserving.”

He falters on his next step, and there must be something about him that seems stricken, since she quickly changes tack.

“And she is…” Miss’s lips pinch. “Very beautiful.”

“Mm,” he says, closer. She hedges back. “That’s true. Though I’ll admit, it’s not what drew me to her.”

“And she’s very tall.”

“To some, I suppose.”

“And – and womanly.”

His gaze drags over her, for once letting himself linger at the slim curve of her hips and the gentle slope of her breast, showing the barest hint of his desire. “I’ve never had any complaints on that front, sure.”

His miss, of course, doesn’t notice.

“And –” her mouth twists – “and blonde.”

“Oh,” he murmurs as her back hits the table. “I don’t know about that one.”

She glances up at him, brow furrowed, but undeterred. “And it seems like you enjoy –” she licks her lips, awkward – “servicing her.”

Her cheeks flush as her words catch up to her. “I mean, being in her service.”

“Oh, Miss,” he purrs, resting his hands on either side of her, bending close. “I haven’t gotten to that yet, but I’m certain there’s no one else I’d rather…yield service too.”

She’s red from neck to brow when she hazards a glance at him, and for a moment all he sees is heat, and then she lowers her head again, and he –

He takes his chance.

Her lips are just as soft, just as sweet as he had thought they might be. She stiffens at first blush, fingers clenching in his coat, but in the next she melts, she blossoms, and she – she –

She opens her mouth against his, surging up to meet his kiss. He staggers back to hold her, hands flexing against her hips, drawing her in closer. Her arms lift, winding around his neck, every soft part of her resting against a hard part of him, and he can’t help crushing her close, his hands stroking her back, burying themselves in her hair.

Her breath stutters across his lips as he pulls away, eyes fluttering open to half-mast.

“Shirayuki,” he murmurs, hand palming down her flank. “I only have one mistress.”

“Then…” Her face is the perfect study of pleased confusion. “We haven’t been talking about Haki?”

He leans in, relishing how her head tips to meet his. “No.”

Zakura makes his excuses after a single bout.

“I have important work to be doing, Your Majesty,” he reminds him with a grin, mopping the sweat from his brow. “You’re to be married in a week, if you haven’t forgotten.”

“Ah, thank you,” Izana drawls, sheathing his blade. “Seeing as Mother hasn’t reminded me in the last quarter hour, I have drawn dangerously close to forgetting.”

His aide sweeps a dramatic bow. “All part of the many services I provide.”

“Just go.” Izana waves at him dismissively, in the way he knows Zakura hates. “You’re boring me with all this wedding talk.”

“I live to serve,” Zakura deadpans, sauntering out the doors.

The room is cavernous now that it is empty, and Izana presses a hand to the weapons rack, steadying himself. A king rarely has time for leisure, but with the wedding looming close, and having started the preliminaries for his brother’s own political courtship dance – he’s hardly had time to breathe.

A king does not have the luxury of falling apart. Not when he has so much yet to do.

The door barks on it hinges as it swings open, and in a single breath Izana is whole again, turning with a smirk. “Honestly, is there no one else you can annoy at this –”

The words quickly die in his throat. His visitor is not Zakura.

“Oh my.” Boot heels click enticingly across the marble floor. “We are not even yet married, and already you tire of me, Your Majesty?”

“I…” His wit is his sharpest weapon, but it abandons him now as his fiancée strolls across the floor, not in her usual fashionable gowns, but in – in buckskins and blouse, waistcoat expertly tailored to sit at the top of her hips, drawing his gaze between the curve of her breast and the curve of her –

“Of course not, my lady.” Heat gathers beneath his skin, and he – he is irritated at his own distraction. Lady Kiki wore mens’ clothes as well, and yet he never – “What is it that I can do for you?”

“I thought…” She’s far too close to him, the scent of ginger and spice enveloping him as she runs her hand along the rack, fingers lingering on the pommel of one of the swords. “That we might spar.”

He blinks, expression flattening into a polite mask. “Spar? You and me, my lady?”

“Yes.” Her smile tilts up at the corner. “Do you happen to play for forfeit?”

He is unprepared for her being capable.

From the first moment, she surprises him, pulling sword from the wrack like she was born to it.

“Your brother never mentioned you studied the blade,” he observes as they circle each other. She’s cautious, perhaps too much so. But there is an eagerness in her too, one that makes him wonder if he can wait, make her try to land the first blow.

Her mouth shifts into a smirk; he wishes the sight did not make his heart clench so. It’s…inconvenient. “It is a recently acquired hobby of mine.”

She steps to him, and it is him who makes the novice move, who goes to block only to find it is a feint, a way to throw him off guard as she dances in close. Her blade darts in, inches from his side, but he is fast as well, parrying well before she slips away, circling him so she is always at his back.

“Your style is…unique.” There’s no other word for it. She’s not experienced, to be sure, but she fights clever and careful.

Her teeth flash in a grin. “I had a unique teacher.”

She’s toying with him, trying to wear him out or dizzy him with these antics. An intelligent tactic, to cover up her inexperience, but he did not best the finest swords in his kingdom to be undone by a pair of buckskins.

He stops turning, and when she lunges for him, he is ready. A single parry gives him time to break distance, to bring her into a space he can control, heaving heavy blow after heavy blow to keep her on guard, to make her falter, and –

He goes to land another, expecting her blade beneath it, but she sidesteps, and while he over extends she cuts in close, not with blade but with –

The pommel strikes his hand, leaving it nerveless. It’s no feat at all for her knee to come up, tapping the blade from his hand up into hers.

“I want my forfeit,” she says, so even.

“We didn’t discuss terms, did we?” He swallows. Foolish.“What is it my lady desires?”

“I…” For the first time since she has entered the room, she wavers, cheeks flushing pink. “Tell me…” She licks her lips. “Tell me you want to marry me.”

“I do.” It wouldn’t have been a lie before; he needed the North, and she was a pleasant concession to make for it. He’d always liked her, that sly wit she let slip through when her polite mask began to crack. He’d thought she would be interesting at least, a comfort if not entirely an ally, but now…

Now he is…intrigued. How could he not be, when she’s come in here dressed like a man and beat him so handily.

“Tell me…that you cannot wait.”

“I cannot,” he agrees. He’s surprised to find he means it. “I’m eager to be told that I can take you as a wife.” He lifts a brow. “Especially if you plan to keep those trousers.”

Now that is a pretty blush.

He leans in, lifting his blade from her boneless hand. “Another,” he breathes, far less controlled than he wished.

Her eyelashes flutter in confusion. “I – excuse me?”

“Another match.” He pulls away, smirk slanting his lips. “After all, anyone can win once.”

Her eyes narrow. “If that is what Your Majesty wishes.”

“Oh yes.” He looms close once again, relishing how her breast rises faster when he nears. “And let me name my forfeit now.”

“Of course.”

His gaze drops pointedly to her lips. “If I win, you’ll allow me to kiss you.”

Her chest stutters for a moment, and then she is closer still, mouth perilously close to his own.

“Husband,” she murmurs, breath caressing his lips. “If you want a good match, you have to make your forfeit something I don’t want to do.”

His hand seizes her waist, dragging her body flush to his. Distantly, he hears steel clatter to marble, and then her fingers grip at his cravat, tilting his chin the barest hint down.

“Oh my,” she sighs, palm curling up over his shoulder. “It seems you have me disarmed already.”

He grins, letting it grow sharp, grow wolfish. “I’ll have you more than that, if you aren’t care –”

Her fingers wind into his hair and tug.

His groan echoes off every surface of the room. He’d be humiliated, if he wasn’t beyond caring.

“If you keep doing that,” he warns, mouth so close to hers that he is no longer sure which breath is hers and which is his. “We will have to call the Justice now, or you will not make it to the –”

Her palm presses tight along his skull, buries beneath the thong that ties back his hair, and she pulls.

“Oh hells,” he murmurs, and then there is no room for thought.

Neither of them call for the Justice.