Hello! Love and kisses all round to the hardcore crew who've been with me since the beginning! I love you guys, you're seriously badass. And high fives to the newbies, I'm glad you've caught up.
Okay, first things first, I am now working on two fics simultaneously, so that's why things are slowing up a bit since they require different mind-sets. That, and real life is once again getting in the way of my glorious writing funk.
IMPORTANT Warnings:
1: Bad language. Standard.
2: SEX! Yes, it's time to confess. You know I said I didn't do love scenes? Well you are witnessing a first, people! I have written a sex scene. Since this fic is rated to handle it, I'm not warning you it's there—I'm warning you that while I'm 'sort-of-okay-can't-bear-to-try-again' with it, you may think it's awful. Please give me honest feedback about it—just in case I think I could write another and you're all retching and screaming 'No! No! Dear god, why?!'
3: I have settled on a sequel. But it's in another fandom (not Harry Potter, sorry). Please trust me—I think it's going to be pretty damn good. Same meta-fictional rules for Kation/Natalya… different unsuspecting characters to inflict upon her. (Or should that be the other way around? I don't know who I feel sorrier for.)
TRISTAN:
Gawain, flanked by Kahedin, Galahad and the twins, was bearing down upon them at an alarming speed. He did not say anything, but the blood suffusing his cheeks foretold much doom and woe for Tristan. At least he did not have an axe in his hand.
Galahad looked savagely triumphant. "I knew it! I bloody knew it!" he hissed.
"It's about time you two kissed and made up!" Cador exclaimed.
"Pay up," Dinadan said, nudging Kahedin, who grinned and handed over several coins.
"Tristan, you beast!" Kahedin drawled, his grey eyes a-gleam with delight as he surveyed the pair of them. "Really—I'll never understand you two."
Now it was Gawain's turn: he seethed with righteous wrath and his eyes flashed. In fact, he so resembled an outraged lion that Tristan was half tempted to make a joke and just retreat to his room.
But Kation was standing her ground and tilting her chin up in that defiant angle that boded trouble. For other people.
"What in the bloody raw hells is this?" he roared, finally getting enough air into his lungs to say anything at all. "What… how… I can't…!" he reached for Kation, but she stepped out of Tristan's embrace and threw out a hand.
"No no, stay where you are. I can hear you just fine," she said, her expression irritated. "What's the matter?"
"This!" He gestured at Tristan, but not looking at him. His eyes were ablaze with fury. Clearly he saw himself as the sole protector of Kation's virtue—being a self-appointed 'brother' to her—and stepped right into Tristan's space so that they were well within strangling distance of each other. "You knew I would object!" He growled. "Kation is… is… off-limits!"
Tristan was about to object—with his fists—when he heard Kation mutter: "Oh for pity's sake…"
She stepped between them and shoved them apart. "The truth is that Tristan and I are exactly as we seem. Wish us happy and stop being such an overbearing idiot."
Gawain huffed and turned to the twins for support. "Do you see how he talks to me?" he exclaimed.
"Well he's more educated than you are, I reckon that he's allowed," Galahad said, unexpectedly coming to Kation's defence. The effect of the remark was to render Gawain speechless and Kahedin took the opportunity to haul their friend away remarking that it was high time they all went and had a quick breakfast before returning to work.
Tristan and Kation didn't even look at each other as they hurried to their respective rooms to finish dressing and to reacquire their weapons. Kation leaned against the doorframe to watch him finish braiding his hair back and then strolled into the room. She was wearing only her throwing knives and one of her curved daggers, so he didn't think she was particularly worried about the security of the fort.
"Ready to face further judgement?" she said with a grin.
"Since they assumed as much from the beginning, it was only Gawain and Kahedin who were in for a shock," he growled, turning to fix her with a meaningful look.
Her grin turned feral in an instant and he felt that familiar thrill that was a mixture of the primal fight-or-flee instinct and a blood-coloured anticipation. But all she did was shrug and brush past him to contemplate the window.
"Fancy going—?"
"No," he said a little too quickly, tugging her back towards the door. She followed him docilely to the tavern where they joined the knights on a long trestle table piled high with food. Kation found a perch beside Galahad on the end of one bench, while Tristan was forcibly dragged down beside Gawain who clearly wanted to whisper evil things into his ear.
As soon as he had a roll and some hard cheese in front of him, Gawain leaned close and whispered under the muted-roar of noisy banter: "She isn't a young lady the likes of you can touch!"
"Oh no, did you really think I wasn't aware of that already?" Tristan murmured, unperturbed. "I was sure you knew I like doing bad things."
Gawain faltered, stammered a few incoherent syllables at the innuendo and then turned fully to glare at Tristan, who stared back, unimpressed.
Finally he rallied.
"Well, well, well…" Vanora said, an evil triumph in her bright blue eyes and the satisfied line of her smile. "Kahedin tells me that you have finally come to your senses," she turned that disturbing expression upon Kation, who flushed and quickly started talking to Galahad about the patrol rotas.
"Good morning, Vanora," he said cautiously.
"Your timing was certainly… interesting."
"I always think most clearly during a crisis," Tristan retorted.
Dagonet, who had finally managed to escape from treating the wounded, sat down and was swiftly apprised of the latest turn of events by Dinadan and Gaheris.
"How old is Tristan again?" Gaheris said in a voice with heavy suggestion—not that Tristan could see what that had to do with anything…
"If he's old enough to be in Britannia, then he's old enough to have a boyfriend," Dagonet said, sounding disinterested. "Just you leave it alone. Kation isn't the type to be exploited or bullied." That put an end to Gaheris' lewd comments and conversation turned, mercifully, to the duties that lay before them that day.
Kation had offered to deal with the mountain of paperwork—something they all considered a noble sacrifice worthy of the Christian martyrs—and it was as they were allocating various duties for the day that the trouble started.
"… lazy barbarian thumb-suckers leaving all the hard work for us," a voice grumbled.
There was a chorus of resentful agreement and then a band of Batavians rounded the corner, making for the tavern. They all looked tired and surly, but moved with enough vigour for Tristan to not wholly rule out a potential mêlée.
"Look, there they are now, having a nice breakfast," another sneered.
"Good morning, knights," said the first. "Will you watch us clean up your mess again today?"
"No, actually," Gaheris drawled—he had recovered from Dagonet's set down—"we were just wondering how desperately your husbands back in Germany must be missing you."
As the Batavians stiffened in united outrage, Tristan nearly groaned. Sarcasm was not the right way to deal with this.
"What did you say?" one of the Batavians hissed.
Gaheris didn't even blink. Crazy bastard. "You heard me," he snapped. "Or do you need me to draw you a picture…?" he drew a small knife and thumped the pommel on the table top. "Because I'd be happy to carve it onto your skin."
That wasn't even fighting talk. That was murdering talk and the Batavians seemed to think so too. They shifted, but didn't back down. Then the one with a fresh cut down his cheek snorted and crossed his arms.
"I'd like to see you try it," he scoffed.
Gaheris stiffened, but amazingly it was Kation who shot to her feet, her face an open declaration of war and her back as straight as a lance.
"Excuse me," she said in the silky accents of certain doom, "you may not recognise me, but I am this man's slave," she pointed at Tristan, and glanced at him; vicious defiant grey eyes caught him in their enthralling gaze for a split second before she turned back to the Batavians. "I was the one who got the gates open last night with some of your comrades."
"The little demon!" a Batavian gasped. "That was you?"
Kation inclined her head modestly. "What an apt description," as she lifted her head, Tristan saw that she was wearing a half-smile. "Yes, it was me," she tipped her head to the side, almost coquettishly. "I must say, I was honoured to fight alongside you last night. It was truly a pleasure to kill so many desperate men."
The Batavians were starting to look uneasy as Kation walked around the table and stood in front of them, taut as a bowstring.
"Really, I haven't had so much fun in years," she said murmured, almost shyly, with a hint of giddiness at the edge of her voice. "So if you are going to fight my master right now, I'd be only too happy to join in. But I must warn you," she added, her hand resting idly on the hilt of her dagger, "I don't know how to hurt people… only kill them." The look on her face was so evil that the more impressionable onlookers winced or shuddered.
"Besides," she added with a shrug. "Getting into a fight with a slave has got to be a little beneath your dignity."
The Batavians glanced uncertainly at the knights, and then at Kation, who stared right back at them. They knew they could take her down, but was it worth the risk? With hateful glares and muttered assurances of retribution, they skulked off the find their breakfast elsewhere. The 'deranged killer' mask fell from Kation's face and she reverted to her usual closed expression.
"That'll teach those arrogant whoresons," muttered an all-too-familiar voice.
Kation turned sharply, looking at the knight with sharp inquiry. "What did you say?"
Lancelot wisely stayed quiet.
"Don't let me hear your voice again." She said in a quiet, cold voice.
If any readers of this fateful, horrifyingly embarrassing journal of my adventure to a supposedly fictional universe are noticed by the God of Cloud-Cuckoo-Land, I have a handbook ready for you.
Rule Number One: The only way to get respect in a patriarchy is to show these swaggering men that you won't roll over.
Although that didn't explain why I picked the 'I'm-actually-a-thwarted-serial-killer' persona out of the Lucky Dip box that is my imagination when facing down a pack of pugnacious Batavians. I'm not saying it didn't do the trick, but it may have worked a little too well. Giving Lancelot the full force of that psycho stare (when he had never been exposed to it before) was perhaps rather extreme—but it shut him up.
However the mother of all awkward silences that followed screamed at me to retreat gracefully to Arthur's office and do mild-mannered paperwork.
I did not look at the knights, I simply rolled my shoulders and walked away without a word. No one would want to talk to me after that little display. I had probably embarrassed them by fighting their battle—but it would have been so much worse if they had argued; because naturally there would have been shoving, and if I know Tristan (and I flatter myself that I do), the first person to jostle or shove him was going to lose body parts.
Feeling my mood sour and a Gordian Knot of anxiety tie itself around my stomach, I almost collided with Arthur as I half-jogged around the corner of a building.
"Oh! There you are!" Arthur smiled down at me, obviously unaware that I was now officially Persona Non Grata with just about everyone except Vanora.
"Sir," I murmured, forcing my shoulders to relax. "How may I help you?"
"Do you know where Lancelot is?"
"He's in the tavern having lunch with Tristan and the others, sir." I said. "With your permission, I thought I could file the reports coming in regarding the fort's restoration."
Arthur looked very pleased with this suggestion and waved me away with a genial smile. I ran all the way to the 'office', despite the screaming aches of all my muscles… seriously, was it even possible for my kidneys to be wrenched? What a joke.
Sinking behind the desk, I didn't even look at all the reports for a few minutes. I just leaned back in the chair, letting my head rest against the wall and sighed. Anyone can choose to be brave, it's true—but actually doing it is another thing entirely. Especially for years at a stretch. I was mentally exhausted, lonely and scared in ways that no one in this entire universe could understand, much less handle.
Perhaps it had something to do with being briefly dead during the clusterfuck under the gate. I had been killed by a nasty blow to the head which may have looked like simple concussion to the onlookers—but it had the far more useful effect of healing my body of its more serious injuries. But it had taken a lot out of me and death—however impermanent—was always a shock to the system.
"Fucking fuck it all to fuckdom. Shit." I groaned, scrubbing at my eyes with the heels of my hands, strongly ignoring the lump rising in my throat. I needed at least one real cup of Lapsang Souchong, a Terry's Chocolate Orange and someone who understands all the subtle nuances of organic bath bombs enjoyed with an entire bottle of wine, a rock radio station and scented candles.
Just thinking about it made the lump double in size. I gritted my teeth and stormed out to the stables to splash cold water on my face. Feeling more alert, but not much better, I went back to the paperwork and spent the rest of the day filing reports, writing summaries and primary assessments, and generally hiding away from everyone.
Arthur poked his head around the door a few times, but always retreated hastily with the latest summary in hand lest I snarled at him. I was able to ride the storm of my emotions without interruption in the aftermath of the crisis.
It was as I was wiping at a tear that had snuck past the barricade (yes, finally proof that I am female—you'd never have thought it, hmm?) that someone knocked on the door.
I swore and wiped at my damp cheeks, cursing the lack of anything to blow my nose with. I eyed the terminally dull crop reports, but thought better of it so settled for sniffing violently and clearing my throat. "Come in," I croaked.
Tristan barged through the door, looking harassed.
This was a surprise.
Still, had to be professional so as not to let on that I was being miserable for no good reason.
I looked at him for barely a millisecond and then ducked my head.
"You have a report for me?" I asked, reshuffling the documents.
"No," he seemed puzzled.
"Then get out."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing to do with you, now get out."
Contrary to my polite request, he actually walked up to the desk and planted his fists on top of the paperwork. I tugged at a pinned scroll (now sadly crumpled), to no avail. "Tristan…" I said, by voice sinking to a whisper. "I need to keep working." It would be the only way I could distract myself from further moments of weakness.
"And I think something's wrong."
"Keep thinking then, I'm sure it's a strange and powerful new experience for you."
His fists reached out and grabbed the front of my tunic, dragging me up and halfway over the desk. I kept my eyes lowered.
"Kat…" by then he was growling. Dangerous growling.
"Let go," I murmured.
"What is wrong?" he said, enunciating the words slowly and clearly.
"Nothing, just leave it."
He let me go with a huff of frustration and stepped back. After straightening my tunic, I risked a peep at him from under my ever-growing fringe. He was glaring at me.
"If this has to do with the Batavians…" he said cautiously.
"No, it's not that." I sighed, dragging my hands through my hair and staring at the ceiling. Then I realised that would have been the perfect excuse. Stupid me.
"Then what? Is it your injuries?" he asked, expression morphing into his version of concern. Tristan's face was one of the most impassive countenances you will ever come across, so I can assure you that the change was infinitesimal.
I took this second verbal gift horse (that I didn't deserve) by the reins and ran with it.
"Damn it, it's not that obvious is it?" I said, trying for grumpy and ending up sounding whiny. Great. Very mature and attractive.
"Oh you idiot," he breathed and stood there, like a bloody pillar of strength, inviting me to lean on him.
As if.
I crossed my arms and stared at him with bored expectancy, so he was forced by my silence to speak again.
"Do you want to go see Dagonet about your injuries?"
I shook my head. "If you could grab me some salve, I can apply it tonight."
He looked at me suspiciously and finally shrugged. "I'm invoking an early bedtime, no arguments," he said.
I had to laugh. "Yes mother," I sniped.
He grimaced slightly, clearly unenthusiastic about that appellation, and stepped close to give me a quick peck on the lips. "See you tonight."
"Later," I grinned and nipped his mouth, letting my teeth click. Oh yeah. Risqué flirting where anyone could walk in on us was certainly cheering me up. And distracting him. His expression turned feral and my own blood fizzed in reaction.
When he finally left, I deliberately procrastinated over thinking (or perhaps 'overthinking'?) about my reservations regarding starting a relationship with a fictional character for the rest of the day. It shouldn't worry me since I was as real as anyone else in this world, but I could not afford to make plans. At any time I could return to my own world, and that would be the end of it…
… Right?
When the light started to fail and I was contemplating lighting a lamp, Arthur appeared for the final time that day.
"Alright Kation, you've done enough. I'll see you tomorrow."
I nodded, carefully stretched and left. Walking through the stables, I was half shy, half crazy about the prospect of spending the night with Tristan now that we had finally figured out what we really wanted from each other.
Fortunately, that only lasted as long as the walk to the tavern. Upon seeing Tristan and sharing a brief but smouldering look with him, I marched into the kitchens to check on Vanora and Verica.
"Where's Brenna?" I asked, looking around for the beautiful blonde.
"Arguing with Gawain, what else?"
"Oh?" I said, allowing a grin to stretch my mouth. "What is it about this time?"
"Something to do with the mutiny…" Verica shrugged. "I am so bored watching them now. Almost as bored as I was when you and Tristan were fighting."
"But we always fight," I pointed out, leaning against the doorframe and casting a glance over my shoulder to look for them.
"Exactly."
My head snapped back round. "Hey!"
"Tristan's a sucker for someone who has the guts to take him on. So it's certainly working for you two," Vanora said, joining us with a bowl of beans that she was preparing.
I couldn't argue with that, and settled for snorting slightly and looking for Gawain and Brenna again. But Brenna was heading for the kitchen, looking to be on the verge of tears. My bruised muscles couldn't take supporting a sobbing woman of her physical calibre, so I crossed my arms over my chest and put on a very unsympathetic expression. I got my relatively happy ending, so she would too, whether she was ready for it or not.
"Oh Van! I can't stand it!" she wailed, throwing herself down at a stool by the central preparation table and letting her face fall into her hands.
"Neither can I," I muttered, noting the equally frustrated miens of Vanora and Verica. We closed in on her and I took up my position across from Brenna and planted my hands on the scarred wood. "This," I said, leaning forward on my hands. "Is an intervention."
"We're here to help," Vanora added, although her glare spoke of forceful persuasion if Brenna offered even the slightest resistance.
"What you need to do is tell him how you feel in very simple words," Verica said. "Don't let him run away or make excuses."
"I can help with that," I said. "I'll go stand by the entrance and look forbidding."
"That's settled then—he's trapped and has to hear you out," Vanora said, taking up the thread. "Tell him that you're angry because you're scared for him and you don't want to lose him because—"
"You love him," Verica and I added our voices to that final statement.
Brenna looked stunned and even stopped crying. She mopped her cheeks and smiled tremulously up at us. "You really think he'll listen?" She quavered.
I pulled out a knife and tossed it casually into the air, easily catching it and then flicking it up again. "He'll have no choice."
Vanora and Brenna shuddered as Verica cackled gleefully. "Give Kat a head start of about five seconds," she managed between chuckles as I put my knife back into its sheath and slipped out of the kitchen, "while we do something about that rat's nest on your head."
No point, I thought. If this works Gawain will wreck it in about five milliseconds.
I leaned my less-pained shoulder against one of the beams and crossed my arms, keeping my scowl fixed on Gawain as the Batavians, Sarmatians and loyal troops celebrated around me. I was way too tired to join in and I knew my fuse had shortened considerably.
I saw Brenna corner Gawain—there was some gesticulating and both looked impassioned. I was too far away to hear exactly what was said, but then Cador and Kahedin joined me, looking jolly.
"Hey rascal, what's the dark look for?"
"I'm just making sure Gawain doesn't run away. Brenna's got him trapped and I'm the 'consequences' she's threatening him with."
"Poor man doesn't stand a chance," Kahedin shuddered.
"Did the paperwork miss you?" Cador teased.
"So much so that I think it's taken a part of my very soul," I groaned. "I don't care what sort of twinkle Tristan's got in his eye, he's not coming anywhere near me tonight. It's up to you to protect me from him."
Gawain started spluttering at the mental image I had conjured for him, while Cador laughed and promised to champion my cause. After that, the conversation turned to the repairs around the fort. I listened dutifully for a while before flicking a glance in Gawain's direction again.
Oh.
"Hey, when did that start happening?" I said, pointing at the private corner where Gawain and Brenna were sucking face.
"What?" Verica and Vanora rushed to join us from where they had been serving tables and let out gasps of surprise and delight at the sight.
Vanora was wearing that gleeful look again. "I knew it would happen eventually."
We watched as Gawain deepened the kiss and Brenna responded eagerly—they were drowning in each other, sinking into a happy oblivion…
"Gawain—breathe!" I yelled and got an elbow in the ribs from Cador as Gawain and Brenna broke apart looking embarrassed. There was a roar of approval that went up from the Sarmatians present. I was dragged back to the knights' table, where Cador ordered my supper from Verica. What a sweetie-pie, I thought muzzily, propping my chin up on my hand and staring at nothing in particular. Tristan was penned in at the other end and I was grateful to be free of his fussing for a moment.
"Brenna loves me," Gawain said, staggering over to us, sounding slightly stunned as he stared down at us, the bashful blonde tucked against his side.
I kept my expression blank as I turned to look up at him. "I cannot express my delight for you both," I murmured and leaned against Cador who slid an arm around my waist to keep me from falling off the bench. I was happy for them, but couldn't summon much energy to express myself as Gawain hoped. I managed a smile that Gawain returned a thousand-fold before retreating to a private spot with his blushing lady.
The conversation became more general and when Verica returned with my food, I was in the thick of a debate with Dinadan about why I was unsuited to wielding a lance—not the first time I had to try to explain I simply didn't have the upper body strength for it. As the evening progressed and we chatted expansively on a number of light-hearted things; from the twins' latest hunting trip, to Galahad's virginity (always a hilarious topic) and Bors' adjustment to fatherhood. I don't think I had laughed so hard in weeks.
But as the lamps started to burn low and the talk became more raucous and edgy, I felt Tristan's gaze lingering on me more and more. The intense gleam in his eyes echoing my own sentiments. Time to go—I was only going to be hopped up on nerves and a cup of wine for so long before the trauma of all that paperwork sent me into a decline. I winked at him and then threw myself into my role.
"What's wrong, kitten?" Kahedin asked as I groaned and pushed my half-eaten plate of food away.
"'M tired," I said around a half-smothered yawn. "What does it look like?"
"Well then it's simple: Tristan, take the brat to bed." Dinadan said cheerfully, and prompted several teasing remarks from the others. Tristan got to his feet without a word and walked around to me, tugging me away from Cador's shoulder and onto my feet. I faked a sway and waved sleepily at the knights, wishing them a good night before leaving under my own steam.
"You're not really tired, are you?" Tristan asked, brushing against me as we slipped through the shadows and up the stairs to our rooms.
I shook my head and sent him a feral grin that made him walk even faster. The moment we were in my room I stilled before the bed, my conflicting feelings swirling in my brain. I mean, there had been a considerably long (let's just say over a year) dry spell. There were metaphorical cobwebs and I was worried I'd get hurt—or hurt him by saying anything about it.
Then I felt Tristan come up behind me, the heat of his body rolling off him in waves. I idly leaned back and he caught me against him—the hilts of several knives digging into my back. I felt him bury his face against my neck, planting a breathy kiss against the base of my skull. I gripped his forearms, feeling his arms tighten around me.
Wriggling, I managed to turn in his embrace and pulled him down for a gentle, exploratory kiss. As my hands travelled down his chest, I smoothly divested him of his belt and knives, letting them fall to the floor with a clang. The noise made him break away to see what I had done; with a rueful smirk, he yanked my own knives free and began the more complicated task of fiddling me free of my kidney belt. I took the chance to toe off my boots and socks.
"Oh honestly," I murmured, as Tristan meticulously unwound my sash, and I grabbed the end of it thrusting it into his hands. "Hold this," I said. He watched me curiously as I held my arms out and slowly spun away from him, round and round like a dancer until the length of dark green material hung between us like a lifeline. I turned to light the brazier in the corner—because it was still cold at night—giving Tristan time to shuck his own clothing.
When I turned back, I saw he was closing the distance between us in nothing but his leggings, his eyes ablaze. I didn't have time to say anything before I was back in his arms, my hands tangling in his hair as I was ruthlessly kissed; we nipped and soothed each other's mouth with licks and bites—at once affectionate and feral in our passion.
We were standing right by the bed now, and we broke apart just long enough to climb into it (since someone had yet to invent spring mattresses, it was surprisingly easy to hurt yourself by just jumping into bed).
"You," he said in Sarmatian, punctuating his words with kisses. "Have no notion," another kiss, this time against my clavicle as he reached down to ease my tunic and undershirt up, "of how long I have wanted this," he finished, sliding his war-rough hands up against my super-sensitive ribs (because yes, I have to be ticklish somewhere really fucking obvious). I arched against his hands, humming deep in my throat as Tristan undressed me reverentially; so slowly and carefully—like someone determined to reuse the wrapping paper at Christmas—taking time to plant kisses and bites whenever a new patch of skin was revealed.
"Hmm-mmm," I managed, pulling him up again to bite his lip as I wriggled down the bed, positioning myself under him—my need a white-hot knot in my abdomen and the muscles in my back and legs quivering with anticipation. He broke away with a growl and tugged the tunics off over my head, hurling them away before freeing himself from his leggings, giving me the chance to do the same. Now naked and shaking from lust as well as cold, he leaned over me and scraped his teeth along my neck, licking and kissing down to my clavicle as he idly caressed my (miniscule) breast with one hand. A knee worked my legs apart and I quivered as he slid that hand down my side and slipping his hand under my hips. He lifted me to him and my thighs decided to take matters into their own hands and wrapped their co-conspirators my calves around his thighs, pulling him closer. I felt the heat and want of him brush against my leg and I shuddered involuntarily, arching up, clinging to his shoulders as I braced my weight on my shoulders, aligning our hips. Ready. So ready.
"Kat," he said, his voice a strangled whisper, clearly holding himself back as the light of the brazier's flames rendered his skin a glorious contrast of sweat-slicked gold and sharp flickering shadows.
Incredulous, I actually opened my eyes to glare at him. Why on earth was he on top?!
Either Tristan was having second thoughts or he had phenomenal self-control, because he stayed where he was, hovering over me, his body tense as I slowly breathed in and counted to ten on the exhale.
"What is it now?" I asked in Sarmatian.
"Are you…? Have you done this…?" he couldn't seem to get the words out. I didn't know what upset me more: the fact that he thought I was a virgin, or that he had only bothered to ask now.
"Of course I have!" I gasped, half-tempted to hurl him off and throw him out. "Are you really going to stay like that all night?" I challenged. "Because I'll get cold—hhnnnk!"
Yeah, I didn't finish that sentence because Tristan ruthlessly entered me in one swift stroke that had my eyes rolling into the back of my head at the exquisite, slightly painful stretch. He kissed me hard as he did so, muting my cry that would have otherwise rattled the shutters.
Like I said: despite being more than ready for it physically, it had still been a while.
I froze, hands pressed against his chest as he stilled, letting me adjust to him. I swallowed thickly and leaned up to kiss him again, trying to let him know I was fine as I held him close. My hands buried themselves in his hair, gripping at his scalp. A shudder rippled down his spine, sending a wave of pleasure through me so intense that I sighed against his mouth. He growled deeply, the vibration reverberating into my core as he moved, slowly increasing his speed with each rolling thrust of his hips. The pressure increased inside of me and I clung to him even more tightly as we gasped and I matched his movements as we sank into mutually glorious oblivion.
Sated, utterly exhausted, we lay side by side panting gently. I was too wrung out and so was he, but the night was cold and I managed to retrieve the tangled blankets. My limbs were like jelly and I just couldn't keep away from Tristan's heated skin. He held me close and we kissed unhurriedly, savouring the taste of each other as we almost absentmindedly pulled the blankets over us. That accomplished, Tristan gently turned me around so that I was Little Spoon, planting gentle kisses all over my shoulders and neck as I hummed in satisfaction.
No words were needed.
Just as I was slipping into sleep, I heard him whisper in Sarmatian: "I love you," against my neck, wrapping his arm tightly around my waist and throwing a leg over mine, holding me close.
Okay. That woke me up again.
Now words were very much needed.
Despite knowing that I did indeed love him back, I wondered why I couldn't say it just then. I opened my mouth to speak, and nothing came out but a tiny gasp.
"Kat?"
"I—I…" I swallowed convulsively and wondered what the hell was wrong with me. I'd never been so happy in my entire life, and here I was, unable to speak—unable to say the most important words to the one man in all the worlds who actually meant something to me. What the hell was going on? Why the hell did my chest hurt so much?
"What's wrong?" he asked, loosening his hold to turn me over. I quickly covered my face with my hands, not wanting to show him my shock.
I shook my head, my palms still pressed to my eyes. Then I hiccoughed once. Twice.
Oh mercy, I was getting weepy.
"Kat!" now he sounded worried.
Tears stung my eyelids and began to leak from the corners of my eyes. "No, no, I-I'm f-f-fine…" I mumbled, mortified. "I'm just very happy…" I quickly wiped my face and buried it against his chest so he couldn't see me cry. "And I love you so much," I added fiercely.
He huffed in amusement and hugged me close. "And finally you do something womanly, I think the world is about to end." After kissing away my tears, he rolled onto his back, taking me with him so that my head rested on his chest. Idly tracing patterns on my back, he yawned and hugged me closer. "Sleep," he mumbled and promptly did so himself, leaving me to wonder at what my life had become.
I loved him, and that meant I would eventually have to let him go.
Oh my god… was that any good? I'm half-mortified, half-'proud-as-hell'. Let me know if I have appeased you.
Cheers!
~L.