#rather than it being anne i wish it was mark smeaton

[cosmic-walkers]

reading bring up the bodies, and every time we come across mark smeaton, especially through thomas's perspective, i wanna jump in and save mark.

[rahabs]

“you’ve always been strong for me. let me return the favor." for either Anne Boleyn/Thomas Cromwell/Henry VIII or George Boleyn/Mark Smeaton (I get if the first pairing is too out there for you, but I'd *really* like to see more fic for that pairing if you're up for it!)

Disclaimer: I have never read any content for these three, but I had such a blast with this dynamic that I would absolutely consider writing for it again in the future.  I do love a good power dynamic.  @allegoriesinmediasres

ALSO ON AO3. [RECOMMENDED]

     Wherefore Now We that Lovers Be    

Thomas is bent over a stack of state papers when she finds him, hands clenched so tightly that when she lifts one they stain the parchment beneath.  It’s hardly unprecedented—they have become as used to his long nights as he, and Thomas suspects he is a notable part in this arrangement of theirs only for the fact that he is rarely present once the sun dips beyond the horizon.

It’s better this way, he tells himself.  Less eyes to see, less tongues to bridle.  Yet, if he were truly absent, he supposes they wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place, would they?

His eyes stray to her abdomen, just beginning to round under the newly-loosened stays.  There is a trickle of very real fear that keeps him still as she carefully uncurls his hand and presses her fingers against his bloodied palm, and Thomas, unused to the sensation, can do nothing but allow it.

“Do you ever intend to join us?” she asks, one eyebrow lifted in reproach.  He merely inclines his head in answer, trusting in the mask that has served him so well over the years, from his position as a secretary under Wolsey to the present.

She sees enough.  She always has, this Queen Anne, who had to learn very quickly to look beyond practiced smiles and a courtier’s tricks in order to survive a court that would have chewed her up and spit her out without a moment’s hesitation.  Perhaps, once, he would have even numbered among those who would have seen her fall.  Now, the very notion makes something twist unpleasantly in his chest, and he does not know if that speaks to his own weakness, or—

“I see you found him, my dear.”

—or someone else’s.

“Your Majesty,” he says at last, spine straightening reflexively as he carefully drops the queen’s hand.  The king merely raises an eyebrow, one that matches his queen’s, until Thomas is left facing the heady combination of their combined scrutiny.  It is as uncomfortable as it is anything else, and he can do nothing but await their verdict.  Only a fool every forgets rank where royalty is involved, and despite this... this thing they have, this arrangement, Thomas Cromwell is no fool.  This is not a relationship of equals, for all that he has consented freely, God help him, and he cannot forget that, much as they wish otherwise.  He has already allowed himself to slip too far, to give too much ground, and now—

He sucks in a breath when the king reaches out a steady, confident hand, one that finds a place not on his shoulder, as one might expect from a friend, but rather his hip, the way one might touch a lover.  It is not… an inaccurate assessment, them being what they are, and Thomas can only hold still as Henry, eighth of his name, steps forward, until Thomas is forced to tilt his head back to accommodate the king’s greater height.  From behind him, he hears the rustle of skirts, and then the slim hand that had been in his only moments before is carding through his hair.

They have boxed him in, he thinks, blinking.  Clever. Then again, he’d always known that about them.  It was part of the draw, was it not?  And Thomas had never been able to resist a challenge, a puzzle.  There had been no pursuing of them on his end, for it was not his place, but when they had—when the king had—

But that does not mean anything, does it?  He exists as he does at their will.  And, looking at the queen’s pregnant form, he finds himself wondering how long that will will last.

The child’s colouring will be attributed to her.  This he hopes, fervently, for his sake and for theirs.

Henry may have professed an amused acceptance of the fact that this child was not his—could not be his, for he had been occupied by affairs of state in the north at the time, though of course they had assured him they would fudge the details and claim surprise when the babe came ‘early’—but Thomas is aware that the king is not a man who likes to share and, more to the point, he is a man who takes the succession of his fledgling dynasty very seriously.  This is the man who broke with Rome to marry the former Lady Anne for love and the promise of sons—how can he abide being a cuckold?  How can he abide one of the chicks in the nest not being his? It is true that Henry already has two sons by Anne to accompany the daughter whose sex had been such a disappointment, but there is no guarantee that either boy will live long enough to see his father’s crown.  It still makes Thomas vaguely ill to think about, and he finds himself waiting for the proverbial axe to land.  The urge to reach up and rub his neck is strong, but he is nothing if not controlled.

Then again, both Henry and Anne have proven time and time again that there is little they love more than to see him lose that control.

He feels a pair of lips against his hair, and hears the queen sigh.  Her hands drift down his chest, and he feels her press against his back even as the king tilts his chin up and leans down for a swift, stolen kiss that leaves Thomas feeling more unmoored than he has since Queen Anne had told him the child she carried was his.

“Oh, Thomas,” Anne says, a note of sympathy warring with the curl of amusement in her voice.  “I can practically feel your worry.  Relax.”

The king’s eyes echo her amusement when Thomas flicks his own back to them, and the low lighting of the candles makes his hair shine like bronze in the gloom.  He is an imposing figure, Henry: still as strong and as robust as he had been in his youth, an active participant in all the sporting events of the court.  The fact that he towers over nearly everyone only adds to that, and Thomas, who has never flinched from anyone’s gaze, who has always met the world head-on and with a steady eye to the future, looks away.

“Tom,” Henry says, the hand still at his chin lifting it again.  A thumb brushes his cheek.  The intimacy is an unfamiliar thing—certainly never something he shared with his own wife, beyond what was necessary to beget his own beloved children.  “Come to bed.”

“The grooms—”

“Have been dismissed, as always.”  Henry gives him a look in askance, as if disappointed that Thomas would think, even for a moment, that he would chance anyone knowing the true nature of their arrangement.  Thomas knows why Henry worries, but cannot stop the bitter feeling that sparks in his chest.  After all, they all know that if the circumstances of their relationship—if this strange thing he’s found himself in can be called that—come to light, it will not be the king taking the fall.   Thomas curses his own foolishness again, his weakness in giving in, for wanting, and yet—

And yet, as Henry leans in for another kiss, Thomas finds himself surrendering to his presence all the same, any sound he might make muffled by the King’s Majesty and the unwavering, strong presence of the queen at his back.

“You’ve always been strong for us, Thomas,” Anne says.  Thomas’ breathing has quickened; he cannot stop it, not now.  The hand at his hip feels impossibly hot, the queen’s arms around him impossibly firm.  “Let us return the favour.”

And Thomas, weak, surrenders.