Sibylla/Godfrey/Tiberias
Untitled
Godfrey/Tiberias/Sibylla.
NC17
For my lap cat (/cryptic)
AN: This was intended to be a PWP but it got distracted somewhere. I'm not even sure if this counts as a fic in its own right or whether it's just an exploration of thoughts.
They dressed her in expensive brocade, in heavy embroidered velvets, even in the heat of the summer. They swathed her head in veils, painted her skin in dark powders and taught her to walk like a lady.
They moulded her into the perfect princess, especially once it became clear she would one day be queen. They found her a husband, a man who could rule. They found new blood to bring to their line. A young lord who would treasure her, they thought.
She’s wrapped up and decorated, bejewelled, silk against her skin, sensual fur and shielding damask. She’s precious, protected, perfect.
And they love to take her apart.
Tiberias is patient. He is the steady hand that holds the king. He is the gentle touch that sooths the frayed tempers. He is the implacable cool in the centre of the heat.
Godfrey is the fire. He singes what he touches. He would change the world before the chance is past. Before it is all too late and he must face the crumbling ruins around them. Sometimes she thinks Godfrey believes they will heal the ruins.
They are a matched pair; inseparable. Not light and dark, not right and wrong, just different. Complimentary. Without Godfrey, Tiberias would fade. Without Tiberias, Godfrey would take on the world. Together they move towards a better Jerusalem.
She has always watched them.
They are a force that radiates outwards, they are a force that contains. They are a stabilising force. She knows her brother relies on them. She’s seen the way his mask turns from one to the other, heard the softness in his voice when he says their names.
And that is why she can never tell him.
It was Tiberias who kissed her first. She had thought it would be Godfrey. But Godfrey was lounging against the sill of the window, a half smile on his shadowed face.
Tiberias’s hands were warm, dry as paper and the heavy fabric of her dress rustled where he touched it. His mouth was warm and assured without demanding like her husband’s did.
She remembers the first time fondly, the weight of his body against hers, the pressure of his cock as it breached her, the soft sounds he made, panting in her ear. He had taken his time, teasing her towards climax then almost completely withdrawing, his long fingers sketching artful spirals on her stomach while she bucked against him, trying to pull him back.
She remembers Godfrey coming to stand by her head, his hand sinking into Tiberias’s hair with a gentle caress. She remembers the heat that suffused her when she saw that Godfrey was stroking himself in time with Tiberias’s hips, his eyes unblinking on the join of their two bodies.
It would be wrong to say it became a pattern; that would imply regularity and expectation, neither of which she dared to have. Sometimes she would catch them together and they would open their arms to her, draw her into their heated embrace, but she could never predict when.
If she saw them alone they treated her with the reverence her position required, never, even in private, acknowledging the fact that she had come screaming in their arms the night before. The offer was never voiced but clear all the same: she could have them both together, on their terms, or neither.
It wasn’t a condition she had any desire to alter.
She wondered once, lying back between Tiberias’s thighs, whether Guy knew. The feel of Godfrey’s hands against her, inside her, was like nothing Guy had ever attempted. She wondered, as Godfrey reached up to kiss Tiberias over her shoulder, whether Guy had neglected her on purpose, not caring if she sought pleasure in another’s arms.
Sometimes this thought haunted her again when she slipped from her husband’s bed when he’d finished with her, retiring to the comfort of her own room. She wondered if he could smell their scent on her skin, whether he thought her lack of passion was purely frigidity or whether he knew that she knew pleasure and didn’t recognise it with him.
When Godfrey left Jerusalem he left a hole in Sibylla’s heart. Without him there was nothing that would make Tiberias look at her, even if she could bear to seek his company. There was a stillness in the palace that nothing she could do could break.
She saw her brother deteriorate, she saw Tiberias fade and she saw the smug light in her husband’s eyes. Around her Jerusalem slowly fell to pieces.
She wondered if the decay tainted everything, whether it had slithered insidiously inside her and whether it was corrupting her, darkening her thoughts. She wondered if the world was really black or whether there were many shades of grey.
Sometimes she thought about Godfrey, and about Tiberias, but she didn’t think that without them she was strong enough to hold the kingdom by her brother’s side. Tiberias was a bulwark against the storm, but the wall he held up was crumbling, its foundations removed.
And then, in Ibelin, where she had rarely been, lying on her back in silken cushions with a smear of precum on her thigh from Godfrey’s son’s cock, Sibylla re-found strength.
Godfrey/Tiberias/Sibylla.
NC17
For my lap cat (/cryptic)
AN: This was intended to be a PWP but it got distracted somewhere. I'm not even sure if this counts as a fic in its own right or whether it's just an exploration of thoughts.
They dressed her in expensive brocade, in heavy embroidered velvets, even in the heat of the summer. They swathed her head in veils, painted her skin in dark powders and taught her to walk like a lady.
They moulded her into the perfect princess, especially once it became clear she would one day be queen. They found her a husband, a man who could rule. They found new blood to bring to their line. A young lord who would treasure her, they thought.
She’s wrapped up and decorated, bejewelled, silk against her skin, sensual fur and shielding damask. She’s precious, protected, perfect.
And they love to take her apart.
Tiberias is patient. He is the steady hand that holds the king. He is the gentle touch that sooths the frayed tempers. He is the implacable cool in the centre of the heat.
Godfrey is the fire. He singes what he touches. He would change the world before the chance is past. Before it is all too late and he must face the crumbling ruins around them. Sometimes she thinks Godfrey believes they will heal the ruins.
They are a matched pair; inseparable. Not light and dark, not right and wrong, just different. Complimentary. Without Godfrey, Tiberias would fade. Without Tiberias, Godfrey would take on the world. Together they move towards a better Jerusalem.
She has always watched them.
They are a force that radiates outwards, they are a force that contains. They are a stabilising force. She knows her brother relies on them. She’s seen the way his mask turns from one to the other, heard the softness in his voice when he says their names.
And that is why she can never tell him.
It was Tiberias who kissed her first. She had thought it would be Godfrey. But Godfrey was lounging against the sill of the window, a half smile on his shadowed face.
Tiberias’s hands were warm, dry as paper and the heavy fabric of her dress rustled where he touched it. His mouth was warm and assured without demanding like her husband’s did.
She remembers the first time fondly, the weight of his body against hers, the pressure of his cock as it breached her, the soft sounds he made, panting in her ear. He had taken his time, teasing her towards climax then almost completely withdrawing, his long fingers sketching artful spirals on her stomach while she bucked against him, trying to pull him back.
She remembers Godfrey coming to stand by her head, his hand sinking into Tiberias’s hair with a gentle caress. She remembers the heat that suffused her when she saw that Godfrey was stroking himself in time with Tiberias’s hips, his eyes unblinking on the join of their two bodies.
It would be wrong to say it became a pattern; that would imply regularity and expectation, neither of which she dared to have. Sometimes she would catch them together and they would open their arms to her, draw her into their heated embrace, but she could never predict when.
If she saw them alone they treated her with the reverence her position required, never, even in private, acknowledging the fact that she had come screaming in their arms the night before. The offer was never voiced but clear all the same: she could have them both together, on their terms, or neither.
It wasn’t a condition she had any desire to alter.
She wondered once, lying back between Tiberias’s thighs, whether Guy knew. The feel of Godfrey’s hands against her, inside her, was like nothing Guy had ever attempted. She wondered, as Godfrey reached up to kiss Tiberias over her shoulder, whether Guy had neglected her on purpose, not caring if she sought pleasure in another’s arms.
Sometimes this thought haunted her again when she slipped from her husband’s bed when he’d finished with her, retiring to the comfort of her own room. She wondered if he could smell their scent on her skin, whether he thought her lack of passion was purely frigidity or whether he knew that she knew pleasure and didn’t recognise it with him.
When Godfrey left Jerusalem he left a hole in Sibylla’s heart. Without him there was nothing that would make Tiberias look at her, even if she could bear to seek his company. There was a stillness in the palace that nothing she could do could break.
She saw her brother deteriorate, she saw Tiberias fade and she saw the smug light in her husband’s eyes. Around her Jerusalem slowly fell to pieces.
She wondered if the decay tainted everything, whether it had slithered insidiously inside her and whether it was corrupting her, darkening her thoughts. She wondered if the world was really black or whether there were many shades of grey.
Sometimes she thought about Godfrey, and about Tiberias, but she didn’t think that without them she was strong enough to hold the kingdom by her brother’s side. Tiberias was a bulwark against the storm, but the wall he held up was crumbling, its foundations removed.
And then, in Ibelin, where she had rarely been, lying on her back in silken cushions with a smear of precum on her thigh from Godfrey’s son’s cock, Sibylla re-found strength.