#he's talking about the fire being stoked within him but he's 'happy being patient let's say' for now | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

weshallc · 4 years ago

Text

This is so exciting, can’t wait to see what happens next! (No, I honestly do forget)

Berns Night (Revisited) 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿

Call the Midwife AU (Crown Jewels, everyone but Paddy and Bernie at Mount Busby)

Chapter Three: OF MICE AND MEN

“The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men. Gang aft agley. An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain. For promis’d joy!�� To A Mouse by Robert Burns 1785.

“Liars and Lovers Combine Tonight, We’re Gonna Make A Scene.” The Captain by Biffy Clyro 2009.

The largest reception room at Mount Busby Farm would have once been very grand, with Queen Anne furniture and Regency coffee tables. The only thing that remained unchanged was that the original fireplace still gave up warmth and light provided by nature, and the windows let in the light from the same star constellations and the same moon.

The Two Loves preferred antique furniture of a later period and in their 80s comfort was paramount. The room was stocked with love seats, chesterfields, recliners. bean bags, generous cushions, and a rather charming gold settee that suspiciously looked pre-war. Just no one was sure which war. Everyone mocked it, but everyone fought to sit on it as it was very comfy. Patsy often talked about replacing it, but Delia wouldn’t hear of it. “You don’t throw your memories out with the rubbish and there are more memories than just ours hidden within these cushions, Cariad.” That was always the end of it.

The most current occupants of that particular settee to be making memories were Tim Turner and Lucille Anderson. Phyllis looked over at the awkward teen, who was no longer as awkward as he had once been. He sat comfortably chatting to his companion, both of them laughing at intervals. Lucille often finishing Tim’s sentences or him proclaiming, yep that’s it or knew you’d get it when they appeared to reach a level of understanding. Of course, when she asked the student nurse about her new friendship, she would just reply, brushing the older nurse off. “Oh, he is a dear boy; He makes me laugh.”

He was certainly doing that from where Matron Crane was sitting on a leather tan Whitworth dining chair, probably by Frank Hudson. Years of heavy lifting before the introduction of patient hoists and transfer boards had taken their toll on the matron’s back. It was why she had found herself in a more managerial role much earlier than she would have planned. She looked at Student Nurse Anderson and thought maybe the NHS was in more tender capable hands than the shitstirrers would have them believe.

“I am wondering if we should start,” youth minister Tom Hereward was on his feet. “I am not sure how long baby will sleep in a strange house.”

“I have been called many things in my time, but not sure strange is one of them,” laughed Delia.

“Oh, I have Deals, it’s fine,” reassured Patsy.

Tom turned pink. Trixie leaned over to him, “They are joking,” and sat back onto the giant purple pouffe she was sharing with Valerie. “I know, I live here. I have to put up with it all the time.”

“So. Erm who is in charge, who has the most authority here.” Tom was still trying to create some sense of order.

“Well, Julia is the vicar,” chirped in Bobby, trying to offer her husband some support.

“But this is not the church,” Rev Julia responded with a warm smile.

“Another shock there then, it’s all coming out tonight, Patsy.” Delia couldn’t help herself when she had an audience and a bottle of Prosecco was being passed round.

“Matron Crane is on the council,” Lucille reminded everyone.

“No, I don’t think that matters lass, it’s not a council matter.” Phyllis shook her head.

“Well, someone needs to take the lead,” Tom said with a hint of irritation.

“I will! On the authority that I am a young woman on her only night off of the week,” struck up Val, “but I have agreed to come here and discuss plans for Bernie’s birthday instead of having two for one sex on the beach.”

“It’s a cocktail, and its happy hour in the Fourteen Teacups on a Tuesday,” Trixie interpreted for everyone.

“That’s ambitious having a happy hour in the Teacups, isn’t it?” said Fred, who had managed to wedge himself into a deep red Chesterfield.

“Yeah, apparently Ursula gives you the right change, that’s why they call it happy hour,” Tim smirked.

“As I am representing the Crown. I will continue,” said Val and she did, “we want to put on a Burns Night for Bernie’s birthday like in the old days. Now Tim has told us Paddy is half Scottish.”

“Why isn’t he here?” asked Bobby.

“Well, he said it would look suspicious if he left Bernie on her tod behind the bar on a Tuesday night,” Vi explained sitting on a scarlet love seat next to Fred.

“Yep, in case our two Tuesday night regulars rush the bar at once,” snorted Val.

“I think it’s more that it would look suspicious if he actually just left Bernie alone for five minutes,” Trixie corrected.

Lucille felt Tim squirm in the seat beside her. She knew he thought the world of Bernie, but didn’t like to hear her relationship with his father discussed in public. This was inevitable being a small village with one pub, one church and two of the village's most popular inhabitants linked to both. She tried to ease his tension.

“I think it’s lovely, just shows as my grandma used to say there may be snow on the roof, but there is still fire in the grate.”

As everyone surrendered to laughter, Matron shared a smile with the vicar, both of them confirming Lucille might be familiar with the saying, but maybe not its meaning.

Delia was the first to keep a straight face, “But they are only bairns, wait until they are mine and Pats age then the fire may need a little bit of stoking.”

“Yes, Deals, but remember we have never required the use of a poker.”

Val swiftly continued, “Paddy doesn’t wish to be involved.”

“Why?” Reggie asked, perched on his wooden stool.

Val motioned towards Tim, who was still recovering from the last topic of conversation.

“Because it would look ridiculous, his words not mine.” Tim continued, “and I quote, Wilf had the works, I would look like I was trying to pull a stunt to impress Bernie by looking like I was dressing in drag and taking the piss.”

Tim looked at his knees, and Lucille gave one a quick squeeze. She knew this wasn’t easy for him.

Everyone else also looked at their knees. The mood was solemn.

“We can all understand Paddy’s reasons.” There were a couple of nods and sighs in response. “But we aren’t putting up with any of that nonsense,” Val added with a grin.

This was met with a very large and unanimous cheer.

“Well, I’ve already looked up the Turner tartan,” Trixie handed an iPad over to Patsy via Val.

“That’s very smart,” approved the artist.

“Sorry I hate to throw a spanner in the works, but how are we going to afford all this?” butt in a pensive Vi.

“We’ve already thought of that,” grinned Delia, ”Mount Busby will cover the cost of the costume.”

“That’s very generous,” sniffed Evie, who had nearly dozed off in a leather recliner.

“Not really,” explained Patsy. “I have a friend that works for Kilts 4 U and they are very interested in looking into the possibility of making an alpaca lined sporran.”

This was news to Reggie who followed anything relating to his charges with great interest, “What’s a sporran?”

“It’s where he keeps his spare change,” Fred enlightened, or at least tried to.

“It’s the little purse that men wear at the front of the kilt, Reggie,” Violet elaborated. He seemed reassured by this.

“So anyway, in return for a few samples,” Patsy continued, “my friend will be happy to hire out the full regalia for the evening.”

“It’s not long now until Burns Night have you got some sort of prototype ready?” quizzed Evie.

“Lady K is working on them as we speak. She loves nothing better than fiddling with a bit of alpaca wool,” Delia replied gleefully.

“Lady K?” Phyllis queried.

“Yes, she is very creative,” reassured Trixie.

“I don’t doubt it, Trixie, but she is one of Bernie’s clients. What if the lass sees what she is up too”

“Don’t fret Phyllis,” Patsy interjected, “I find that Antonia is much less forgetful when she has an occupation to challenge her and I am certain she won’t let the cat out of its proverbial bag.”

Jack sat on the floor accidently banged his head against the fire surround he was leaning against, “Can’t imagine Berns thinking; oh look Lady K is sticking bits of alpaca wool to a man’s bag he hangs in front of his todger. That must be something to do with Paddy and my birthday”

Vi was quick to admonish Jack, but when even Tom started to laugh, she decided to let it go.

“What about the little knifey thing they keep in their sock that he stabs the Haggis with?” Fred was beginning to get excited.

“Sgian dubh,” corrected Vi.

“All part of the traditional dress,” Patsy added a tone to her voice to reassure everyone that she had thought of everything.

“So that’s the gear sorted. Me and Reggie are in charge of the beer. What else?” Fred’s eyes were wide, thinking they actually might be able to pull this off.

“Well, myself and Evie have created a menu, pretty much on the lines of what we used to do in Wilf’s day.” Violet opened a small notebook and put on her reading glasses.

Clearing her throat she read, “Cock-a-leekie soup, Scottish salmon and tattie scones or scotch egg for starters.”

“Cock a what?” shouted up Jack.

“Chicken and vegetable soup to you, young man. There will be a just vegetable option too.” Violet’s voice began to take on the air it adopted when addressing an audience. “Then we have the Haggis or vegan Haggis, neeps and tatties and a whisky sauce.”

“What about those that might not wish to partake in the Haggis?” Tom asked nervously, as he might.

Evie spoke up before Vi could respond. “There is always the Fourteen Teacups for the likes of those that don’t wish to have Haggis. It’s a Burns Night. If you don’t want Haggis, then stay at home and order in a pizza.”

“What’s for pudding?” Bobby struck up, squeezing her husband’s hand.

“Cranachan which is raspberries, cream, oats and whisky, or Clootie pudding with whisky sauce or whisky ice cream or a Scottish cheese board with oatcakes.”

Murmurs of approval were aimed in Violet’s direction.

“That’s a lot of whisky?” Lucille remarked.

Violet agreed, “Yes, we need just a house whisky for everyone for the toasts Val, I will leave that to you, but you need to pay the piper with a good quality malt.”

Silence broke out in the previously buzzing, over occupied living room.

“Piper!” Several people groaned at once.

Fred, who was not going to let anything get in the way of this Burn’s Night declared, “Look, we will just have to bung on a recording.” Turning to Tim and Jack, he said, “You lads look up the Red Hot Chilli Pipers on your phones.”

Tim reached for his phone, swiping the picture of Lucille and him with Alpaca Colin. But Lucille touched his hand, making him hesitate.

“I don’t think that would be very suitable, Mr Buckle going to all this trouble with such a delicious menu and Mr Turner all dressed up in the finest regalia and then having some squeaky din coming out of an iPhone.”

“Your right lass, it just won’t do,” supported Phyllis.

“Well, does anyone know a piper?” Fred replied wearily.

“Surely we can find a professional one online?” contributed Julia

“A professional piper that’s free on Burn’s Night at this late notice,” chided Phyllis.

“I know a piper.”

The voice came from the back of the room. Everyone turned to look at the slight dark-haired woman sat on a dining chair. “Well, I think we all do.”

“Do we, Jane?” Julia asked.

“Yes, the busker that stands outside the town hall in Appleby Thornton.”

Everyone started talking at once;

“I only go into town every second Tuesday to get my hair done.”

“Same here I only go through if I have a doctor’s appointment.”

“Well, it’s the cost of the parking isn’t it, it’s free at Tweaven Retail Park and more shops.”

“You can get it on t’internet delivered to your door.”

“I haven’t been since Marks and Spencers closed.”

“Debenhams is closing next week such a shame, that shops older than me, always been a department store in Appleby Thornton.”

“It was one of the first in the country to have a lift, you know.”

Jane cleared her throat. “There are a lot of good things about Appleby Thornton that are not always obvious.”

“Here, here!” chimed in Val, “there is still a Primark.”

“Oh well, let’s be grateful for small mercies,” stung back Trixie.

Much to Delia’s disappointment, Val bit her lip. The ex-nurse and market gardener loved a full house. She cherished her quiet times with Patsy too, but she was the more sociable of the pair. The farm was large enough for Patsy to have her office and art studio and not be disturbed while Delia fussed the alpacas with Reggie. Trixie moving in had been Patsy’s scheme, but Delia was the one who had benefited most from their new project, even if she would never let their new employee know she was a project.

Delia enjoyed listening to Trixie’s anecdotes and gossip. She felt reconnected with a world that was moving so fast. The Two Loves were business women and technology hadn’t passed them by. It was the music, the celebrities, the trashy telly that Patsy despised and Delia loved that made having Trixie and her friends around delight Delia.

Delia’s carer probably wasn’t as up-to-date with pop culture as Trixie and her friend. Val was now a frequent visitor to Mount Busby, as she and their new lodger had struck up quite a friendship. Nurse Bernie always looked a bit behind the door when the other two were in full flow about some reality TV show.

But since Trixie had moved in, Nurse made Delia’s blood pressure check the last visit on her rounds and she drank tea, sitting and chatting with Trixie. Bernie didn’t need to watch Love Island. She had her own romantic paradise in Poplar-on-Tweaven and Delia couldn’t be more happy for her.

Val had bitten her lip, her new friend was still a bit of an enigma to her. She did know Trixie might talk as if she had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but in the last few months she had gleaned enough to know that spoon had been tarnished sometime ago. So in spite of all her bravado, Trixie was as familiar with Poundland as she was with Prada.

It was Julia who cut through the chatter. “I believe I am familiar with the young man you are referring to. He has a small dog with him if I am right?”

“Yes, Reverend.” Jane was beginning to believe she had dreamt the piper and maybe also Appleby Thornton.

“He’s rather good, as I remember.”

Jane was beaming as she nodded.

“So problem solved,” Fred rubbed his hands together with glee, “tot of whisky, a bowl of water for the pooch, bob’s your uncle, sorted”

“No, it certainly is not.” Trixie’s tone caused everyone to alter their gaze, “this man is a professional musician surely, if he has a regular spot he has a license. I am sure Chummy is well acquainted with the gentleman and his story. We can ask her.”

Inspector Noakes had been unable to attend the meeting because of work commitments, and Peter’s Tuesday evenings were spent running a youth football team that Jack and Timothy had both enjoyed being a part of. Alas, Tim had become too rangy and prone to injury, and Jack had become too lazy and prone to chips.

Trixie continued, “He deserves an appropriate wage for his efforts.” She turned to Val. “I believe the Crown has an entertainments licence.”

Val nodded and smiled reassuringly at her friend, “Paddy does, leave it with me and I will also make sure he and the mut are fed and provided with transport both ways.”

Trixie relaxed and shared a smile with the aromatherapist sitting at the back of the room. “Do you know his name?”

“Kevin.”

Fred let out a huge sigh. “So we are all sorted then?”

“It would appear so,” replied Lucille, grimacing at Tim.

“Apart from Dad.” groaned Tim.

Followed by an echo of sighs.

“Leave your dad to me, Chick.” winked Val.

#call the midwife #berns night revisited #january 2020 seems like a lifetime ago #hope it has a happy ending #hate those angsty slow burn au fics

7 notes · View notes

ohnojustimagine · 5 years ago

Text

Dusk Till Dawn, part 2

Pac/Reader; smut and angst leading into fluff (ish), 9350 words.

You can find part 1 here and you probably would need to read that first as this follows directly on from it.

The sun is just beginning to rise as you make your way home. Your torn, ruined wedding dress barely covers you, threatening to fall off your shoulders at any moment as you walk. One of the servants at the castle took pity on you and gave you an old blanket to drape around yourself so as to preserve what little of your modesty is left and you clutch the two ends of it tight over your chest.

The ground is cold in the early morning, rough on your bare feet, but at least it is a Sunday and so there is as yet no one about to witness your barely decent state. But everyone in the town will soon be aware of what has happened, you realize with a sinking heart. You cannot remember the last time a new bride was not almost immediately dismissed from the castle after being summoned on her wedding night, the King's right generally only a mere formality, something that is rarely acted upon.

That you did not return so swiftly but were in fact gone for the entire night will tell the petty gossips all they need to know. You will be judged, likely shamed, but there is nothing that can be done about it, you tell yourself resignedly. Perhaps you should feel ashamed, you think, blushing to remember some of the acts you so eagerly partook in, but there is a strange distance to your recollections. Your lips might still throb from ardent kisses and your sex ache with pleasure, but the past night already feels as if it was not quite real, something so removed from your ordinary life that you are not so certain you will ever be able to truly believe it actually happened.

You quietly open the door of your new marital home, entering, and it seems not as large as you recall; one room that is smaller than the King's entire bedchamber, but it is clean and neat and warm, the remains of good fire glowing softly in the grate.

You see that your husband is asleep, his snores and snuffling breaths loud from the bed in the corner, and so you stoke up the fire, adding a few pieces of wood, watching as the flames flare brightly, crackling as they burn. There is a pot of water sitting on the hearth, heating, and you take off what is left of your dress, folding it carefully.

Your mother spent hours sewing it, and you remember how her eyes shone at you when you first tried it on. "You're so beautiful," she'd told you. "Your husband will be so proud to take you as his wife."

And though you became his wife, it was not your husband who took you. It was the King, and the only thing you can be certain of is that he has changed you, opened both your mind and your body to desires you had not known existed within you, appetites that you did not ever suspect you were capable of feeling, let alone indulging.

But you dismiss such thoughts, finding a cloth and quickly washing your body down with the warmed water, dressing yourself in your every day working clothes, and when you are done, you sit at the table, waiting, staring into the fire.

Your husband finally stirs, sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes at he looks at you. He does not speak as he rises, instead walking over to you and simply resting one hand on your shoulder, bending to kiss the top of your head. You reach up to take his hand, and he says, softly, "Are you all right?"

"Yes," you say, though you are not so very sure it is the truth.

"Good," he replies, and it seems that is the last of it, because your life goes on.

It is not the same as before, of course, as you are a married woman now, having left your childhood home to make a household of your own with your new husband. His family have a plot of land just outside the village where they grow vegetables and keep chickens and pigs, selling the produce at the weekly market in the town square, and you are looking forward to working with them, wanting to remain busy, if only to stop your mind from wandering to places you would prefer it did not go.

And so the next day, as the week starts in earnest, you and your husband make your way there to work. He takes your hand in his as you walk, blushing a little and staring straight ahead of him, and you smile to yourself, because though last night he did nothing but sleep beside you, you are confident that the true intimacy of your married life will soon begin.

His parents are waiting for you, already working, each with a hoe in hand, hilling up the soil around a row of beans.

They stop as the two of you approach, and though they greet your husband warmly, they do not seem so happy to see you, the contrast to their smiling faces on your wedding day stark enough that a swift chill runs through you, settling tense in the pit of your stomach. Your new father-in-law does not address you at all, refusing to even meet your gaze, and your mother-in-law only looks you up and down with a sneer and a sigh, muttering under her breath about 'used goods.'

You blush, humiliated, staring down at the ground. And it is only made worse by the fact that you have known them since you were just a child, and they have never, until now, been anything but kind to you, encouraging their son's courtship and seeming to approve of the match between the two of you. But it would appear that their attitude towards you has now changed, and you cannot pretend you do not know why.

Your husband looks back and forth between his mother and yourself, then gently suggests that you could perhaps begin by cleaning out the chicken coops and collecting the eggs ready for market day tomorrow. You nod, and wander off in the direction he points you, feeling your mother-in-law's eyes at your back, her scorn so palpable it is like something burning on your skin, a mark that is visible to all.

But the day passes, spent mostly in solitude for you, even eating your noon meal on your own, but you do not complain. You would rather be alone than be subjected to such judgment, and while you know what happened to you was not something you freely chose, you cannot help but feel guilty about how you conducted yourself while in the King's presence.

Dusk is falling by the time your work is deemed done, and you walk back through the village with your husband, yet this time, he does not take your hand. He seems deep in thought, and is silent even as you enter your home. You both wash your hands and faces, scrubbing off the worst of the day's dirt, and you ladle out two bowls of the stew you prepared early this morning and left simmering over the fire while you were gone.

"Market day tomorrow," you say, trying to make conversation, lighten the heaviness that seems to hang weighted in the air between you. But he only nods in reply, seeming to barely hear you, so you do not speak again, finishing your food as the darkness of the night begins to close in. You light one of the candles that sits in its holder on the table, gathering up the bowls and spoons, setting them to soak in water overnight.

There is a tightness in your chest, a tension that you cannot seem to shake off, but you tell yourself that it is nothing.

Your husband takes off his working clothes, stripping down to his undergarments and climbing into the bed with a sigh. He lies on his side, facing away from you as you change into your nightgown. It is made of white linen with a simple lace edge, and is really is too fine for daily use, made as it was for your wedding night, but seeing as it never fulfilled that intended purpose, you have decided to wear it regardless, hoping that it will please your husband to see you in it. But he does not even look at you as you blow out the candle and slip into bed beside him.

You can hear him breathing next to you, inhalations that are strangely rapid and deep, and then, without warning, he is suddenly on top of you. You let out a small, surprised gasp, and he kisses you, his tongue fat and limp in your mouth as he reaches down to push your nightgown out of the way. And you are not nearly ready, but it does not hurt too badly as he enters you, thrusting into you rapidly just a few times before his body stiffens, trembling, and he lets out a brief, anguished-sounding cry.

And then he grunts slightly, as if content with this conclusion, and rolls off you. Within seconds you hear him snoring, and you do not move, lying there, shocked, unable to fathom what you have just experienced. Because while you were not expecting your husband to take as much time over things or be as skilled as the King, you were not expecting... that. Perhaps, you console yourself, he was simply nervous, ill-prepared for your first time together. You have heard talk that men who are not practised in the physicalities of married life can be too hurried about things, overexcited as they are with the newness of it all, and so you can only conclude that you will need to be patient with him, allow him to get used to the act.

You feel strangely restless, uneasy and so very keenly unsatisfied, but eventually you drift off into sleep. And yet it feels like you have barely entered slumber before you are awakened, even earlier than usual, needing to make your preparations for market day.

You work with your husband and his parents to set up their stall, piling it high with vegetables and eggs and newly-cured bacon, and when all is in readiness, your mother-in-law looks at you. "I'm sure you can manage on your own, my dear," she says, smiling, but there is no warmth in her eyes. "We will go back to work."

"I can stay with her," your husband offers, and you are grateful for his kindness, but your mother-in-law's response is both immediate and sharp.

"No," she orders, the word barked out harshly. "She is better left alone."

"I am all right," you tell your husband, and he nods. He will not defend you, you know that, and perhaps it is better this way. The three of them do not bid you good bye as they take their leave, but you try not to let it bother you. And soon you are busy enough, people beginning to file into the market, making their purchases for the week.

You are standing idle, waiting for your next customer when two younger men approach the stall, and though you do not know their names, their faces are vaguely familiar to you as locals. They are nudging each other, trying to contain their laughter as they stare at you, wide-eyed. "It's her," you hear one of them whisper.

But you ignore their childishness, and say, "May I help you?"

"You may," the other one says, affecting an accent that you assume is supposed to be humorously reminiscent of the nobility, though you find no jest in it. "I was wondering," he goes on, "if I might ask you a question?"

"Yes," you reply, warily, because you are certain he is not interested in the price of the eggs or the quality of potatoes you're offering for sale.

You can see how desperately he is trying not to laugh as he asks, "Is the King's prick as big as they say?" And as soon as the words are out, both he and his companion collapse into helpless giggles.

Your face burns bright with humiliation, and you look away, wishing you could sink into the earth and disappear, but then you hear two yelps of pain, and when you look up, it is your cousin, Gwen, who has cuffed both boys none-too-gently about the ears. "Find yourself someone else to bother," she scolds them, sending them on their way, and you sigh in relief to see her.

When they are gone, she smiles at you, but there is concern in her eyes. "I heard about..." she begins, but then stops. "After the wedding," she says.

"I'm sure everyone has heard by now," you say, bitter, and she nods, understanding.

"Don't listen to them," she tells you. "It's just the tradition, people know it's the way of things." And you want to believe her, wishing with all your heart it could be so simple. "Was it..." she asks, lowering her voice. "Was it so very bad?"

You shrug, giving her a wan smile, as you cannot think how to answer such a question. She does not reply, simply laying a consoling hand on your arm, squeezing lightly, and you are well aware what she is thinking, what you are allowing her to assume. You feel as if you are somehow betraying the King by not correcting her, trying to explain what actually occurred, but, if you are honest, you are not so very sure you could explain it.

So you say nothing.

"Best to put it behind you," Gwen says, firm but sympathetic. "Move on."

Other customers approach the stall, and she waves a quick farewell, walking away with a sad smile. You sigh to yourself, but you consciously put on a falsely bright face, refocusing your energies. And perhaps Gwen may have misunderstood what happened to you during your night with the King, but she is right in that you do need to put it behind you, and you are determined to do so.

That evening in bed your husband again rolls on top of you and while this time he lasts slightly longer, it is still over in a startlingly brief amount of time. You lie awake afterwards, staring up into the rafters of the cottage, wondering how you ever thought you could be satisfied with such a life.

Because each day and each night is the same: you work alone, separate from the others, you come home and eat, you go to bed and your husband takes what you can only imagine is his meagre pleasure. Thus, you realize, it is becoming clear that if anything is to improve, it will be up to you to take the initiative. So the next night, as your husband is about to begin, you turn to him.

"Wait," you say, and he looks at you with some confusion. "Can we not..." you ask, shyly. "Can we not take a little more time about it?" He stares at you, as if not understanding, watching you in apparent puzzlement as you pull the bed coverings back enough to expose him, then reach into his underclothes, taking his manhood tentatively in your hand. It feels hot under your palm, and he gasps as you stroke it gently, your fingers loose around the shaft of it. For a moment you think he is going to finish right then and there, but you let him go, and he seems to stop himself. You look at him, hopeful, and lower your head, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of his member, lips barely touching it. He stares down at you, his expression one of horror rather than the delight you expected, and pushes you from him with enough violence that you are barely able to keep your balance, crawling backwards on the bed away from him, suddenly afraid.

"That is what whores do," he spits out, abhorrence written plain over his features, as if what you have just done is so repellent it cannot be borne. "Not good women."

And you don't understand, stammering, "I... I'm sorry, I only wanted to please you."

"That is not how a decent wife pleases her husband."

"I am sorry," you repeat, "I did not know, I promise I will not do it again if it is not right."

His face changes, hardening into anger, and your heart sinks with dread at the sight. "Did you perform such acts on the King?" he asks.

You hesitate, then reply, "No," the lie unconvincing even to yourself.

"You did, didn't you?" your husband says, bitterness in his voice. "I..." He shakes his head. "I wanted to believe that you had no choice, that you were forced. But I understand now, that you were corrupted, that you... that you let yourself be corrupted by him."

"It was not like that," you plead, the beginnings of tears prickling sharp in your eyes. "I am sorry," you say again. "Please."

But it seems your husband is set in his opinion, not to be swayed, and he gets out of bed, dressing himself, every movement tense, betraying his fury. "I will not stand for it," he says, pointing his finger at you, and you can only pray he does not see fit to give you a beating for your foolishness. "I will not stand to be disrespected in my own house by my own wife."

He slams the door of the cottage behind him as he leaves, and you want to cry, but you know there is no point, that it would only be self-indulgence and so you bite down on the feeling, swallowing the sob that threatens to well up in your throat, willing your weakness away. This is your life now, and you must accept it, whatever that costs you. You climb back under the covers of the bed, curled up on your side, and for the first time since that fateful night, you allow your thoughts to wander unrestrained, thinking of the King, of how he looked at you, how he touched you.

You had never before experienced what it was to be truly desired by a man, and now, you are quite certain, you will never experience it again. And yet still, the memories stir fresh longings inside you, your body suddenly alive with yearning, an insistent pulse between your thighs as wetness begins to gather there. And though you blush at your own wanton sinfulness, you do not stop yourself as your hand slips under your nightgown, your fingers swiftly finding the place that you know will bring you satisfaction.

You burn with shame to hear yourself, the noises you are making, crude sounds of pleasure as the feeling of it reaches a peak inside you, and it is the King you think of as you tremble through your completion; his face scowling and cruel, softening into a reluctant, guarded tenderness.

You turn over with a sigh, falling into a troubled sleep.

When your husband returns in the morning, he does not speak to you, and you remain silent, staying out of his way, making yourself as small and unobtrusive as you can, not wishing to provoke him. You are hoping his anger will subside at least somewhat, given time, but it seems what you have done is unforgivable to him, because from then on he begins to spend his evenings at the tavern, not returning home until late, the stench of ale invariably on his breath. But he never touches you, not ever, no matter how drunk he is, lying every night unmoving in the bed beside you, his body turned away.

Sometimes, while you are alone, waiting for him to come home, you give in to temptation and satisfy yourself, but the feeling it brings you is empty, hollow.

Weeks pass, and you settle into a kind of dull and aching numbness, resigned to the fact that this is your fate. There are times you would like to make yourself wish that you had never been chosen by the King, had been merely dismissed like so many other brides, but you cannot ever manage to regret that night, whatever trouble it has brought to you.

But then, one afternoon, you are busy in the fields, as your husband and his parents are digging over one of the the vegetable plots, ready for new plantings, and you are walking back and forth with a hand cart laden heavy with dirty straw from the pigs' sty. You unload the cart next to where they are working, struggling to upend it enough that it will empty, and no one speaks to you, but you are so accustomed to silence by now that you barely notice, trudging back to the muck heap next to the sty, mud slippery under your feet with each step. You pick up your pitchfork, ready to refill the cart, your back aching with the labor of it, but then someone calls out your name.

You look up in puzzlement, wiping the sweat from your brow with a filthy hand. There are two royal guards standing there with your mother-in-law and your chest is suddenly tight, you breath caught somewhere in your throat, though whether that is caused by delight or dread you could not say.

"It seems you are being summoned again, my dear," she informs you in a poisonous tone. "I suppose you must have impressed his Majesty with your talents last time."

"I..." you start, hesitating as you glance over at your husband, who only shrugs, turning back to his work. It breaks you inside to know that you mean so little to him, that he does not even care that another man wants to make use of you. "Are... are you certain?" you ask the guards. "The King asked for me?"

"By name," one replies confidently. "You are to come with us."

"Now," says the other, beckoning to you impatiently.

You look down at your dress, covered with mud, and you have no doubt that you must reek of sweat and the worst of the pig sty. "Please allow me to change my clothes," you tell them. "I cannot appear before the King in this state."

"Sorry," the first guard says. "His majesty commanded you be brought to him immediately, without the smallest delay."

"Please," you repeat, "I am sure the King would not wish for me to be presented to him like this."

The guards roll their eyes, and one strides over to you, grabbing your arm, pulling you with him roughly, almost dragging you along until you fall into step with him, walking quickly. They flank you, either side, and you glance back over your shoulder to see that everyone has seemingly calmly returned to their work, not sparing even a look at your retreating form.

Which is no more than you would expect, and so you try to brush some of the mud off your dress as you walk, using your sleeve to scrub off your face as best you can. You are at least grateful that being on the outskirts of town means that you are not being paraded through the main streets for everyone to see you taken back to the castle, but there are people enough to stare knowingly at you as you are marched along.

Tension builds cold in the pit of your stomach as the guards lead you up the staircase that you recall leads to the King's private chamber, because you are certain he will not be pleased by your appearance.

They knock at the door, opening it as the King's voice calls out, "Enter," and you are pushed into the room, holding your breath. The King is facing away from you, wearing dark-colored breeches and riding boots, still adorned with spurs, his white shirt untucked so that it hangs off his broad shoulders, dark hair tumbling in loose, untidy curls down his back.

He turns, a goblet of what you assume is wine raised to his mouth, but when he sees you, he lowers it, lip curling up in obvious disgust. "Good god," he says, looking you up and down.

"I am so very sorry, Majesty," you say quickly, stumbling over the words in your hurry to apologize. "I was working in the fields and your men would not permit me to change before bringing me here, I know that to appear before you in this manner is disrespect of the highest order."

The King does not reply to you, but he glares silently at the guards, raising his eyebrows at them, as if demanding explanation.

They look back and forth between each other, hesitant, and one says, "Your majesty told us it was urgent, that we should bring her with all haste."

"I suppose I did." The King rubs his forehead, seemingly resigned, and then waves at the guards, dismissing them. "Go," he tells them. "And have someone bring up hot water for washing without delay."

They both nod curtly, standing to attention before leaving the room, closing the door behind them, and the King turns his focus back to you. He stares at you for perhaps a full minute, and you keep your gaze lowered, your eyes on the floor, for if you have to see the utter disdain in his expression you are sure you will begin to cry.

"You smell of shit," he says, with a sniff.

"I am sorry, majesty," you say, again, looking at him, pleading. "I was cleaning out the pig sty and..."

He holds up one hand, saying, "Please, spare me the gruesome details of it." He sighs. "I could have any woman in the kingdom and yet it seems I desire..." He gestures at you, disgust written plain even in the movement of his fingers through the air. "This." He seats himself, gulping down a mouthful of wine and looking at you with an undisguised revulsion that is so very similar to the way your husband regards you that you have to bite your lip in an effort to quell the sobs that are burning in your throat.

"At least take off your clothes," he tells you, and you hurriedly obey, carefully folding your dress so no dried mud spills onto the fine rug that covers the floor. You look around, unsure where to place it, and the King says, "Put it all by the door. I will have them taken and washed."

"You do not need to do so, majesty, I can..."

"I would ask you not to argue with me, child," he interrupts, a warning in his voice.

"Sorry," you reply, nodding in deference.

"And stop apologizing," he snaps. "It is most tiresome."

You do not say anything, swallowing the urge to say 'sorry' yet again and hurriedly removing the rest of your clothes. You set them in a neat pile by the door of the room as instructed, then return to your previous position, standing in front of the King, uncertain if he wishes for you to do anything other than wait. But for now, at least, he seems content to simply gaze upon your naked form, and while his expression is not exactly one of unbridled lust, he no longer seems quite so revolted by your appearance.

"Well," he muses, "that's somewhat better. At least you are now pleasing to the eye, if not the other senses."

He takes a swig of his wine, and then leans down, easing off his boots, casting them aside carelessly and then sitting back with an exhaled breath. "And so how is married life?" he asks you.

You are not sure how to answer that without being untruthful, so you settle on evasive. "It is... quite well," you say.

"Quite well," he replies, with the hint of a smirk, as if he guesses that you are deliberately avoiding his question, but before he can say more, there is a knock at the door. "Enter," he says in a commanding tone, not taking his eyes off you.

Two serving women walk in, one young, one older, carrying a low wooden tub of water between them, steam rising visibly off the surface of it. The younger woman stares openly at you, wide-eyed and curious, but the older one merely looks you up and down with a cynical, knowing gaze, and though you do not cover yourself, you shrink back into your body a little in response, your shoulders instinctively hunching as you feel her judgment.

They place the water in front of the fire, and the older woman lays out some generous lengths of towelling and a piece of soap on a nearby table. "Anything else you require, your majesty?" she asks, and the King points at your clothes by the door.

"Take those," he tells her. "Have them washed."

She nods, and you can see her irritation in the line of her mouth, the set of her jaw, and you want desperately to tell her that you know your station, that you should not be being waited on by her or indeed by anyone in the castle, but you are keenly aware that will not please the King, so you bite your tongue, watching pained as she gathers up your things, holding them slightly away from herself as if in disgust.

She and her companion take their leave in silence, closing the door behind them, and you let out a breath.

"Well then," the King says expectantly, nodding towards the water, and you hurry to obey his implied command, stepping into the tub. It is pleasantly hot, the level of water reaching only to just below your knees, and so you assume you are to remain standing as you bathe. Thus you take up the soap and one of the shorter pieces of towelling, dipping them both in the water, and quickly as you can begin to clean yourself off, fearful of making the King wait any longer than necessary.

But almost as soon as you have begun, you hear him emit a strained sigh of obvious irritation, and you stop, looking up at him, confused as to what you could possibly doing wrong now. "For god's sake, woman," he exclaims, exasperated, "you are not scrubbing down a butchered pig. If I have to watch you bathe can you not at least make a show of it for me?"

"Oh," you murmur, because that did not occur to you, used as you are to washing for only practical reasons, rushing when tired at the end of a working day. You are not entirely sure what he is asking of you, uncertain as to what a show of bathing should be, but you hold one shakingly hesitant arm out in front of you, running the soap up it slowly, rubbing gently back and forth over your skin, glancing over at him to gauge his reaction.

"That is more like it," he says, approvingly, and you exhale in relief, continuing.

And it's strange, you muse as you go on, so very strange to be taking your time over something as simple and every day as washing yourself, but to your surprise, you find yourself enjoying it, finally able to relax just a little. The fire is hot at your back, the water warm as it sluices over your body, dripping down across your breasts, your stomach. You lather the soap on your skin, the feel of it soft and creamy, far more luxurious than the rough lump of bitter-smelling soap you use at home. This is scented with lavender, and you close your eyes, inhaling the sweetness, running your hands over your body, unhurried and sensuously indulgent.

For a minute you forget where you are, but then you open your eyes, looking over at the King, blushing at your own lack of modesty, but he does not seem to mind. He still holds his goblet of wine in one hand, but the other is resting on his thigh, near to his manhood, and there is an intentness to his gaze, a focus that tells you his desire is growing.

You lower your eyes as you wash between your legs, too embarrassed to linger over that particular place, especially when you can feel the beginnings of arousal there, wet and full, and when you glance back up at the King, he is smirking slightly, seemingly amused by your sudden awkwardness.

He does not comment, but instead rises to his feet, setting down his wine, pulling his shirt off, over his head, and you try not to stare at his upper body, which seems to be even more remarkable than you remember, with its carved-out muscles and pale, smooth skin, but you do not have time to reflect upon him, as he walks around to stand behind you. He holds out his hand, palm up, next to you, and for a moment you do not understand, but then you realize, and hand him the soap.

You step back so that you are at the edge of the tub, closer to him, listening to the slick sounds of him lathering up the soap, anticipation quivering inside you like something alive, threatening to spill over as you wait for him.

But then he touches you, and you breathe in, the sound of it somewhere between a gasp and a sigh, his hands gentle but assured as he smooths soap over your back, drawing slow circles, as if exploring, mapping your skin. There is a tensed knot of muscle above one of your shoulder blades, still sore from your afternoon's work of shovelling out the pig sty (though you can barely believe that that was only a short while ago, distant as it now seems) and he finds it quickly, unprompted, unerring. He makes a small noise of displeasure at the feel of it, pressing one thumb into the tightness, and you cannot stop yourself from moaning quietly as the muscle releases.

He hums to himself, briefly, as if satisfied by his work, and then bends, picking up one of the cloths, wetting it and carefully washing the suds off your back. Water drips down your spine, over your buttocks, and you can hear him behind you, breathing.

You swallow, nervous, heart beating faster as he leans in to kiss the nape of your neck, his lips tender yet ardent, the promise of something more hanging thick in the air. "I would have you know that I have thought of you," he murmurs. "Many times, since our night together." He kisses you again, then says, "I do tend to find women quite forgettable, but you..."

He does not finish, but you can feel him closer behind you, his hands reaching around you and sliding up over your stomach, under your breasts, lifting the weight of them. His thumbs rub at your nipples, pressing against them, and you feel your flesh harden and peak under his touch, responding to him, unashamed and needful.

"Have you thought of me?" he asks, voice catching so very slightly that you barely hear it. "Since we parted?"

"Yes, majesty," you reply, your face reddening to recall exactly how much you have thought of him, and under what particular circumstances some of those thoughts have occurred.

"Ah," he says, the sound of it low, as if that pleases him, and he presses one last kiss to your neck before shifting away from you. "Dry yourself," he orders, and you nod, stepping out of the tub, careful to keep your balance.

You take up the largest piece of towelling, dabbing the moisture from your skin, and the sudden impatience in his expression tells you that he would prefer you do not linger over this particular part of the process, and so you try to be graceful with it even as you hurry.

He watches, standing there, waiting for you, and when you are finished, you turn to face him. He is still for a minute, but then he moves forward, his hands coming to rest on your waist. You hold your breath as he kisses you, mouth against yours, soft, his lips closed yet full.

He pulls back, looking at you, his eyes dark with a want so blatant you feel it. And you know it is not right, that you should allow him to take the lead, but you cannot stop yourself, your own need an insistent throb inside you, and so this time it is you who closes the space between you. You breathe against him, lick his mouth, and when he opens to you, your tongue slides against his, tangling, gently at first, as if exploring, relearning one another, but then intensifying as he demands more and you respond in kind.

"Yes," he whispers, pulling back just enough to speak. "You are hungry for it, are you not?"

You cannot bring yourself to reply, and he laughs at you, the sound of it something akin to a growl, deep and so very masculine that you feel yourself tremble, weak in the face of it, of your own desire.

"I did appreciate the blushing little virgin last time, but I think perhaps I like this more," he muses, and heat pulses inside you. Still, you wait, knowing your place, trying to contain your restlessness as he seems to consider his next action, but then he takes your hand, lifting it gallantly, leading you over to the bed. He helps you up onto it, and you lie back without being asked, sinking into the thickly-laid coverings of fur and silk, the sensation of it briefly returning your mind to the first time you laid here, so fearful and tensed.

It is strange to realize how little time has passed since that night and yet how much you have changed, now willingly allowing the King to part your legs, baring yourself to him as he kneels between your thighs. He stares at your body, eyes trailing over every inch of you as he slowly rubs himself through his breeches, his gaze so arrogantly possessive that it is as if it burns on your skin.

He leans down, hands firm and assured as he spreads you even wider, his face so near to your sex that you can feel his breath, warm against your own wet heat, and you should be blushing or protesting or resisting, not letting this happen without the slightest modesty or shame, not waiting eagerly, your heart racing, barely daring to imagine what he is about to do.

You swallow, nervous, as you feel him draw closer, and then, at last, his mouth is on you, the first touch of it strangely tender and unexpectedly, almost shockingly intimate. He kisses you, lips pressed against you as his tongue snakes out to draw gently through your folds, beginning to lap at you; softly at first, but then with an increasing vigor, concentrating on that small nub that you yourself have previously focused on as the source of your pleasure.

You bite down on the sounds that well up in your throat; whimpers that threaten to become moans, base and wanton, but the King stops, raising his head enough that he can address you. "Do not hold yourself back, pretty," he tells you, stroking down your thighs. "I want to hear what I do to you." He makes as if to resume his task, but then all at once pauses, giving you a curious look. "Does your husband not do this?" he asks.

And perhaps it is not something that you should reveal, but you shake your head, and say, quietly, "No, he has never."

The King raises his eyebrows slightly, and you think he is about to offer an opinion on that fact, but he seems to stop himself, and instead only smiles at you, perhaps thoughtful. "A cunt this sweet deserves to be tasted," he says, licking his lips before again lowering his mouth to you. And though you are not certain it is proper, it seems it is what the King desires, so this time you do not silence yourself as be begins anew, letting the gasps and cries that his tongue elicits from you echo off the walls of the room, becoming louder and louder.

He licks inside you, moving in and out, and your hips lift up off the bed as if of their own volition, your response purely instinctive as you feel your approaching climax building uncontrolled inside you with an intensity that far exceeds anything you have managed with your own hand during your nights alone. The King's tongue moves on you, his hands gripping your thighs as he holds you down and open for him and just when you are sure you cannot take anymore, overwhelmed with it as you are, something breaks within you, letting go. Your body tenses, releases, tenses again as you cry out, abandoned and unheeding and the King does not relent in his attentions for one single moment, bringing you to even further heights, over and over until at last one final shudder rushes through you, and you fall back, utterly spent.

The King presses a gentle kiss to your throbbing sex, then pulls away, but you can still barely catch your breath, every panted exhale a desperate little whine as he crawls up beside you. His eyes are alight with something that you would not dare to name, his face framed by tangled strands of hair that brush over his bared shoulders. His lips are shining wet, and as he kisses you, you taste yourself on him, his tongue in your mouth just as commandingly skilled as it was between your legs, and you moan, barely recovered as you still tremble with echoes of your completion, gradually fading.

He lies back, next to you, and you turn onto your side, now somewhat calmed, at least enough so that you can look at him. You have never not thought him attractive, but it would seem those distinctive features have arranged themselves into something much more than that; something strangely, wondrously beautiful to your eyes. Without thinking, your hand hovers in the air, but you stop yourself, uncertain. "May I..." you ask, swallowing nervously at your own daring. "May I touch you, majesty?"

"You never need ask permission for that," he says with the hint of a smile, taking hold of your hand and placing it on his chest. He guides you across to his nipple, the small peak of it stiffening as you stroke it.

"Oh..." you murmur, needing no further encouragement as he releases your hand, caressing him of your own accord, your fingers smoothing across the rise and fall of his breast to rub his other nipple. The muscle beneath it flexes, pushing up, and you gasp quietly at the suddenness of it, but you do not stop, moving downwards, feeling out the other muscles that run down either side of his stomach in sectioned-off ridges.

They are tight and firm, so much so that you wonder if he is consciously tensing, holding himself taut for your touch, and the idea that the King might be taking the trouble to present his best self to you sends a small thrill through you.

"Now lower," he tells you, his voice soft, and you swallow, obeying, your hand sliding down to tease at the edge of his breeches, which are still securely laced, though it would be difficult to miss the proudly erect outline of his manhood that is visible through the material.

You trace your fingers lightly over the length of it, brave as you dare, and he inhales, sharp and quick. "Oh, you have grown bold, haven't you?" he says, laughing breathlessly, again smiling at you, but this time it is wide and easy. "Take it out for me, if you want to play."

You breathe, biting your lip, not daring to look at him for fear that you will blush as you kneel up beside him, your fingers shaking and your heart racing as you untie the knot at the waist of his breeches, easing the laces open. He is not wearing any underclothes, and you force yourself to not yet look at his... cock, you say in your head, as you pull his breeches down and off, over the solid bulk of his thighs, past the sinewed curves of his calves.

He does not say anything, but he shifts himself enough to make your task easier, watching you with darkly fascinated eyes, and when you are done, you do not hesitate, taking his cock in hand.

It is thick in your grasp, fitting perfectly within the circle of your palm and fingers, as if that is where it belongs, and you stroke it, careful, slowly moving up and down. The King closes his eyes, letting out a groan, his mouth slightly open, his hips arching up to push into your touch.

And it makes you feel something you do not entirely understand, to see such a reaction from him, to suddenly be aware that he is, in some sense, at your mercy while in this position. This is a man who holds more power than you could possibly ever even begin to imagine, but there are, perhaps, other kinds of power, ones which you yourself might wield, even over a King, and that is a knowledge that does not quite sit comfortably with you.

But then he opens his eyes, one hand slapping at your buttocks. "Get on me, my pretty," he says. "I want to feel that hot, tight little cunt of yours."

You nod, rushed and obedient, breathless with your own need as you straddle his thighs, somewhat uncertain as to the correct way this might work, but it seems obvious enough as you hold his cock, lining it up against your entrance. You inhale a long, steady breath, and begin to take him in, lowering yourself down onto him; slowly, slowly until his full length is inside you. And you feel for a moment as if you might cry with relief, with the feeling of it, because this is what you have needed, what you have been longing for, to be filled like this once again, that ever-present yearning ache within you finally beginning to be sated.

But there is more, you know. "Ride me, then," the King tells you, his voice hoarse. His hands grip your thighs, squeezing tight, and he says, "Show me how you move."

And so you do, and though you may never have been taken like this before, it is not difficult to intuit what needs to be done, lifting yourself enough that you can again sink down onto him, your body seeming to know this as something familiar as you repeat the motion, taking to it easily and instinctively.

"Yes," he whispers, the word extended into a hiss, his grasp on you keeping you to a rhythm that only seems to grow more intense, more urgent.

Your hips roll into it and he moans, the sound of it like something desperate. "God," he grits out. "Oh, my sweet girl, you fuck like a whore."

And you freeze, instantly. Reality crashes down upon you, an overwhelming shame suddenly sliding cold up your spine, because you knew, you knew you were being too forward with him, allowing yourself to behave in a manner not fitting to a woman who is being shown the King's favor, but you were so lost in it, unable to help yourself, lustful creature that it seems you are. "I'm... I am sorry, majesty," you whisper, your voice shaking.

"For what?" he asks, looking up at you, confused, his hands remaining on you, attempting to urge you on, but you do not respond. You cannot, not now, and you kneel up, letting his cock slip out of you, bowing your head submissively as you sit beside him, trying to ignore the emptiness already throbbing at your core.

"What on earth is wrong with you?" he snaps, sitting up. "Tell me," he demands, roughly grabbing hold of your wrist, but you do not dare to look up, unable to receive his gaze, too ashamed of yourself.

"I do not mean to be improper," you answer. "I only wish to please you."

"You do please me," he says. "You are pleasing me..." He shakes his head, clearly irritated. "How did I indicate otherwise?"

"You said..."

"What?"

"That word..."

"What word?"

"Whore," you whisper, barely able to say it, humiliation burning hot on your reddened cheeks, because that is what you must be, you know it now: a whore.

The King does not say anything for a long minute, but then, without warning, he reaches out, grasping your jaw in a firm hand, tilting your face up toward him, forcing you to meet his eyes even as you struggle to look away.

"Has someone called you that?" he demands, his expression hard. "Has someone shamed you for taking enjoyment in the physical?" You do not reply, but he does not release you, glaring at you with an authority that makes you quake with fear. "Answer me, girl."

You nod, as best you can, and he relaxes his grip on you, sitting back, and you hear him take a deep breath.

"Then they are a halfwitted ignorant who is not deserving of a woman like you." He closes his eyes for a moment, as if consciously containing his anger, and it is only then you realize with some surprise that his disapproval is not actually directed at you. "That was perhaps an indelicate way to put it," he says, "but I meant it as praise, I promise you."

"You... you did?" you stammer out, not understanding.

"Yes, I did," he says, and takes your hand in his, holding it, his thumb stroking gently across your palm. "I like that you bring me pleasure, but what gratifies me the most is to see the pleasure that you take for yourself when we are together." He pauses before going on, seeming to choose his words with an extra care. "It is... beautiful," he says, looking at you, and there something soft in his face, so openly tender it makes you shiver. "It is a most precious thing and anyone who would say otherwise is a fool of the very highest order. Are we understood?"

"Yes, majesty," you answer meekly.

"I will not allow you to feel even the slightest shame," he tells you, "not for one single second."

You nod, blushing, trying not to smile, because it would appear you have not displeased him, and a weight seems to lift off your shoulders, lightening.

"Now," he says, "may we go on as before?"

"Yes, majesty," you reply, again, and now you do smile, shyly, but you know your eagerness shows.

"My good girl," he says, smiling back at you, and your heart flutters inside your chest to see it. "Begin slowly, if you wish, but keep on in the previous way," he tells you, giving you a sly glance, as he adds, "if you would be so kind."

He lies himself down, and once more you are over him, but this time with no hesitation, again taking his cock inside you, easy and full. You move, just as he has asked, just as before, and he breathes out, his hands settling on your hips. You rest your own hands over them, holding on to him, watching him, his face, as you go on.

His eyes close, and he soon starts to moan, again, but even louder this time, the sound of it seeming to fill the room. He thrusts up into you, pulling you down onto him as his body stiffens, every last remarkable, powerful muscle visibly tensing, his hands tightening on you, his head arching back.

He is even more handsome like this, you think, and though you do not finish along with him, you do not mind, for you know there will be more to come, that he will not allow you leave him until he has satisfied you again and again.

You wait, then climb off him, lying down beside him, and he pulls you into his arms. His skin is warm against yours, his body somehow managing to be soft and hard all at once, and he kisses you, lazily unhurried, his mouth wet and open until he breaks from you.

"So lovely," he murmurs, gazing at you, eyes shining as he smooths your hair back off your face. "So very, very lovely."

You lean over, daring to initiate another kiss, and he delights at your boldness, laughing wickedly into your mouth.

But this time, when he pulls away, he is more serious. "I have something to ask you," he says, taking your hand, fingers threading through yours, idly moving back and forth. "And I know that as your King I can compel you to do whatever I wish, but I am granting you explicit permission to deny me if that is what you would prefer. Is that quite clear?"

You nod, curious as to what he might require of you, what would need such a disclaimer.

He does not speak for a minute, and you remain silent, watchful, until he finally says, "I want you to stay here with me, to be of use to me whenever I desire you."

And such an offer may be more than you could ever have imagined, but you cannot be certain what he is actually proposing, what the reality of it might mean for you. "For.... for how long?" you say, haltingly.

"I do not know," he replies, careless. "As long as you satisfy me. Until I grow tired of you."

A sharp chill runs through you at the thought that he will indeed one day perhaps no longer desire you, and though all you want to do is say yes and disregard the consequences of it, you still have other loyalties, duties that call you.

"What about my husband?" you ask.

"What about him? Would he even care?" the King counters, and you have no answer to that.

"I have..." you say, aware how naive you sound. "I have to work, on the land. His family need my help."

You know it would not be right to abandon your obligations, however tempting the idea, but the King waves his hand, as if it is nothing. "I will send them one of my own laborers to use as your substitute. A woman as fine as you should not be shovelling pig shit for a living."

"Oh," you say, because you are not accustomed to being so casually provided for. But it seems you are in the King's world now, and things are different here.

You are not so foolish you do not know that if you stay, you will likely have no life to return to, that by the time the King grows weary of you your husband and his family will never accept you back. But then, you muse, what do you have to return to even now? Because what you have been living since your marriage is surely no life at all.

"Tell me, then," he says, holding you tight against him, encircled in the warmth of his embrace. "Will you remain with me?"

"Yes, majesty," you state, firmly decisive. "I will."

He stares at you for a second, almost as if you have surprised him, but then a slow, triumphant smile spreads over his face and he kisses you, again. "Well," he tells you. "It seems we can take our time, then." He runs his thumb softly over your mouth, looking at you. "Oh, my sweet one," he says, "we are going to enjoy ourselves, aren't we?"

And you cannot know what the future holds, but you do not think of that, only nodding in agreement, because for now, you could not ask for any more.

#ohnojustwrites #pac #pac imagine #wwe imagine #aew imagine #only literally TWO YEARS #after part 1

78 notes · View notes

weshallc · 5 years ago

Text

BERNS NIGHT: CHAPTER THREE.

So much love to the most patient person in the world @lovetheturners and all you folks who are willing to take on another chapter.

A Call the Midwife AU in the Crown Jewels Series.

Chapter Three: OF MICE AND MEN

“The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men. Gang aft agley. An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain. For promis’d joy!” Robert Burns, To A Mouse 1785.

The largest reception room at Mount Busby Farm would have once been very grand, with Queen Anne furniture and Regency coffee tables. The only thing that remained unchanged was that the original fireplace still gave up warmth and light provided by nature and the windows let in the light from the same star constellations and the same moon.

The Two Loves preferred antique furniture of a later period and in their 80s comfort was paramount. The room was stocked with love seats, chesterfields, recliners. bean bags, generous cushions and a rather charming gold settee that suspiciously looked pre-war. Just no one was sure which war. Everyone mocked it, but everyone fought to sit on it as it was very comfy. Patsy often talked about replacing it, but Delia wouldn’t hear of it. You don’t throw your memories out with the rubbish and there are more memories than just ours hidden within these cushions, Cariad. That was always the end of it.

The most current occupants of that particular settee to be making memories were Tim Turner and Lucille Anderson. Phyllis looked over at the awkward teen who was no longer as awkward as he had once been. He sat comfortably chatting to his companion, both of them laughing at intervals. Lucille often finishing Tim’s sentences or him proclaiming, yep that’s it or knew you’d get it when they appeared to reach a level of understanding. Of course, when she asked the student nurse about her new friendship she would just reply, brushing the older nurse off. Oh, he is a dear boy; He makes me laugh.

He was certainly doing that from where Matron Crane was sitting on a leather tan Whitworth dining chair probably by Frank Hudson. Years of heavy lifting before the introduction of patient hoists and transfer boards had taken their toll on the matron’s back. It was why she had found herself in a more management role much earlier than she would truly have preferred. She looked at Student Nurse Anderson and thought maybe the NHS was in more tender capable hands than the shitstirrers would have them believe.

“I am wondering if we should start,” youth minister Tom Hereward was on his feet. “I am not sure how long baby will sleep in a strange house.”

“I have been called many things in my time, but not sure strange is one of them,” laughed Delia.

“Oh, I have Deals, it’s fine,” reassured Patsy.

“So. Erm who is in charge, who has the most authority here.” Tom was still trying to create some sense of order.

“Well, Julia is the vicar,” chirped in Bobby trying to offer her husband some support.

“But this is not the church,” Rev Julia responded with a warm smile.

“Another shock there then, it’s all coming out tonight, Patsy.” Delia couldn’t help herself when she had an audience and a bottle of Prosecco was being passed round.

“Matron Crane is on the council,” Lucille reminded everyone.

“No, I don't think that matters lass, it’s not a council matter.” Phyllis shook her head.

“Well, someone needs to take the lead,” Tom said with a hint of irritation.

“I will! On the authority that I am a young woman on her only night off of the week,” struck up Val, “ but I have agreed to come here and discuss plans for Bernie’s birthday instead of having two for one sex on the beach.”

“It’s a cocktail, and its happy hour in the Fourteen Teacups on a Tuesday,” Trixie interpreted for everyone.

“That’s ambitious having a happy hour in the Teacups, isn't it?” said Fred, who had managed to wedge himself into a deep red Chesterfield.

“Yeah, apparently Ursula gives you the right change, that's why they call it happy hour,” Tim smirked.

“Why isn’t he here?” asked Bobby.

“Well, he said it would look suspicious if he left Bernie on her tod behind the bar on a Tuesday night,” Vi explained sitting on a scarlet love seat next to Fred.

“Yep, in case our two Tuesday night regulars rush the bar at once,” snorted Val.

“I think it’s more that it would look suspicious if he actually just left Bernie alone for five minutes,” Trixie corrected.

Lucille felt Tim squirm in the seat beside her. She knew he thought the world of Bernie, but didn’t like to hear her relationship with his father discussed in public. This was inevitable being a small village with one pub, one church and two of the villages most popular inhabitants linked to both. She tried to ease his tension.

“I think it’s lovely, just shows as my grandma used to say there may be snow on the roof, but there is still fire in the grate.”

As everyone surrendered to laughter, Matron shared a smile with the vicar, both of them confirming Lucille might be familiar with the saying but maybe not it’s meaning.

Delia was the first to keep a straight face, “But they are only bairns, wait until they are mine and Pats age then the fire may need a little bit of stoking.”

“Yes, Deals, but remember we have never required the use of a poker.”

Val swiftly continued, “Paddy doesn’t wish to be involved.”

“Why?” Reggie asked perched on his wooden stool.

Val motioned towards Tim, who was still recovering from the last topic of conversation.

Tim looked at his knees and Lucille gave one a quick squeeze. She knew this wasn’t easy for him.

Everyone else also looked at their knees, the mood was solemn.

“We can all understand Paddy’s reasons.” There were a couple of nods and sighs in response. “But we aren’t putting up with any of that nonsense,” Val added with a grin.

This was met with a very large and unanimous cheer.

“Well, I’ve already looked up the Turner tartan,” Trixie handed an iPad over to Patsy via Val.

“That’s very smart,” approved the artist.

“Sorry I hate to throw a spanner in the works, but how are we going to afford all this?” butt in a pensive Vi.

“We've already thought of that,” grinned Delia, ”Mount Busby will cover the cost of the costume.”

“That’s very generous,” sniffed Evie, who had nearly dozed off in a leather recliner.

“Not really,” explained Patsy. “I have a friend that works for Kilts 4 U and they are very interested in looking into the possibility of making an alpaca lined sporran.”

This was news to Reggie who followed anything relating to his charges with great interest, “What’s a sporran?”

“It’s where he keeps his spare change,” Fred enlightened or at least tried to.

“It’s the little purse that men wear at the front of the kilt, Reggie,” Violet elaborated. He seemed reassured by this.

“So anyway in return for a few samples,” Patsy continued, “my friend will be happy to hire out the full regalia for the evening.”

“It’s not long now until Burns Night have you got some sort of prototype ready?” quizzed Evie.

“Lady K is working on them as we speak. She loves nothing better than fiddling with a bit of alpaca wool,” Delia replied gleefully.

“Lady K?” Phyllis queried.

“Yes, she is very creative,” reassured Trixie.

“I don’t doubt it, Trixie, but she is one of Bernie’s clients. What if the lass sees what she is up too”

Jack sat on the floor banged his head against the fire surround he was leaning against, “Can’t imagine Berns thinking, oh look Lady K is sticking bits of alpaca wool to a man’s bag he hangs in front of his todger, that must be something to do with Paddy and my birthday”

Vi was quick to admonish Jack, but when even Tom started to laugh, she decided to let it go.

“What about the little knifey thing they keep in their sock that he stabs the Haggis with?” Fred was beginning to get excited.

“Sgian dubh,” corrected Vi.

“All part of the traditional dress,” Patsy added a tone to her voice to reassure everyone that she had thought of everything.

“So that's the gear sorted. Me and Reggie are in charge of the beer. What else?” Fred’s eyes were wide thinking they actually might be able to pull this off.

“Well, myself and Evie have created a menu, pretty much on the lines of what we used to do in Wilf’s day.” Violet opened a small notebook and put on her reading glasses.

Clearing her throat she read, “Cock-a-leekie soup, Scottish salmon and tattie scones or scotch egg for starters.”

“Cock a what?” shouted up Jack.

“What about those that might not wish to partake in the Haggis?” Tom asked nervously, as he might.

Evie spoke up, before Vi could respond. “There is always the Fourteen Teacups for the likes of those that don’t wish to have Haggis. It’s a Burns Night. If you don’t want Haggis, then stay at home and order in a pizza.”

“What's for pudding?” Bobby struck up, squeezing her husband's hand.

“Cranachan which is raspberries, cream, oats and whisky, or Clootie pudding with whisky sauce or whisky ice cream or a Scottish cheese board with oatcakes.”

Murmurs of approval were aimed in Violet’s direction.

“That's a lot of whisky?” Lucille remarked.

Violet agreed, “Yes, we need just a house whisky for everyone for the toasts Val, I will leave that to you, but you need to pay the piper with a good quality malt.”

Silence broke out in the previously buzzing over occupied living room.

“Piper!” Several people groaned at once.

Fred, who was not going to let anything get in the way of this Burn’s Night declared, “Look we will just have to bung on a recording.” Turning to Tim and Jack, he said, “You lads look up the Red Hot Chilli Pipers on your phones.”

Tim reached for his phone swiping the picture of Lucille and him with Alpaca Colin. But Lucille touched his hand, making him hesitate.

“I don’t think that would be very suitable Mr Buckle, going to all this trouble with such a delicious menu and Mr Turner all dressed up in the finest regalia and then having some squeaky din coming out of an iPhone.”

“Your right lass, it just won't do,” supported Phyllis.

“Well, does anyone know a piper?” Fred replied wearily.

“Surely we can find a professional one online?” contributed Julia

“A professional piper that’s free on Burn’s Night at this late notice,” chided Phyllis.

“I know a piper.”

The voice came from the back of the room everyone turned to look at the slight dark-haired woman sat on a dining chair. “Well, I think we all do.”

“Do we, Jane?” Julia asked.

“Yes, the busker that stands outside the town hall in Appleby Thornton.”

Everyone started talking at once;

“I only go into town every second Tuesday to get my hair done.”

“Same here I only go through if I have a doctor's appointment.”

“Well, it’s the cost of the parking isn't it, it’s free at Tweaven Retail Park and more shops.”

“You can get it on t’internet delivered to your door.”

“I haven’t been since Marks and Spencers closed.”

“Debenhams is closing next week such a shame, that shops older than me, always been a department store in Appleby Thornton.”

“It was one of the first in the country to have a lift, you know.”

Jane cleared her throat. “There are a lot of good things about Appleby Thornton that are not always obvious.”

“Here, here!” chimed in Val, “there is still a Primark.”

“Oh well, let's be grateful for small mercies,” stung back Trixie.

Much to Delia’s disappointment, Val bit her lip. The ex nurse and market gardener loved a full house. She cherished her quiet times with Patsy too, but she was the more sociable of the pair. The farm was large enough for Patsy to have her office and art studio and not be disturbed while Delia fussed the alpacas with Reggie. Trixie moving in had been Patsy’s scheme, but Delia was the one who had benefited most from their new project, even if she would never let their new employee know she was a project.

Delia enjoyed listening to Trixie’s anecdotes and gossip, she felt reconnected with a world that was moving so fast. The Two Loves were business women and technology hadn’t passed them by. It was the music, the celebrities, the trashy telly that Patsy despised and Delia loved that made having Trixie and her friends around delight Delia.

Delia’s carer probably wasn’t as up-to-date with pop culture as Trixie and her friend. Val was now a frequent visitor to Mount Busby as she and their new lodger had struck up quite a friendship. Nurse Bernie always looked a bit behind the door when the other two were in full flow about some reality TV show.

But since Trixie had moved in, Nurse made Delia’s blood pressure check the last visit on her rounds and she drank tea sitting and chatting with Trixie. Bernie didn’t need to watch Love Island. She had her own romantic paradise in Poplar-on-Tweaven and Delia couldn’t be more happy for her.

Val had bitten her lip because even though her new friend was still a bit of an enigma to her. She did know Trixie might talk as if she had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but in the last few months she had gleaned enough to know that spoon had been tarnished sometime ago. So in spite of all her bravado, Trixie was as familiar with Poundland as she was Prada.

It was Julia who cut through the chatter. “I believe I am familiar with the young man you are referring to. He has a small dog with him if I am right?”

“Yes, Reverend.” Jane was beginning to believe she had dreamt the piper and maybe also Appleby Thornton.

“He’s rather good, as I remember.”

Jane was beaming as she nodded.

“So problem solved,” Fred rubbed his hands together with glee, “tot of whisky, a bowl of water for the pooch, bob's your uncle, sorted”

“No, it certainly is not.” Trixie's tone caused everyone to alter their gaze, “this man is a professional musician surely, if he has a regular spot he has a license. I am sure Chummy is well acquainted with the gentleman and his story, we can ask her.”

Inspector Noakes had been unable to attend the meeting because of work commitments and Peter’s Tuesday evenings were spent running a youth football team that Jack and Timothy had both enjoyed being a part of. Alas Tim had become too rangy and prone to injury and Jack had become too lazy and prone to chips.

Trixie continued, “He deserves an appropriate wage for his efforts.” She turned to Val. “I believe the Crown has an entertainments licence.”

Val nodded and smiled reassuringly at her friend, “Paddy does, leave it with me and I will also make sure he and the mut are fed and provided with transport both ways.”

Trixie relaxed and shared a smile with the aromatherapist sitting at the back of the room. “Do you know his name?”

“Kevin.”

Fred let out a huge sigh. “So we are all sorted then?”

“It would appear so,” replied Lucille grimacing at Tim.

“Apart from Dad.” groaned Tim.

Followed by an echo of sighs.

“Leave your Dad to me, Chick.” winked Val.

#call the midwife #a turnadette au without turnadette #al's fics

19 notes · View notes