(no subject)
The reason I probably haven't gotten to you in the love meme is because I was writing something for porn battle.
It's the long, lazy part of the afternoon when Garnet prefers to excuse herself from her duties and walk in the gardens, or plant herself in the library with a book. Outside it is hot and muggy, so she opts for the library rather than battling the heat in her dress. As soon as the guards open the doors for her, announcing her presence, the resident scholars start making demands of her-they need these books, this much funding for archiving, more quills, and every one of them proposes a different room to expand the library into.
She wants to put her foot down and tell them exactly what they can do with their demands. But Garnet is a good queen, a nice queen, that sweet young woman carrying on in the shadow of her mother's tragic death. She takes a deep breath.
“If you could please submit your requests in writing to Doctor Tot, I will attend to them with due haste,” she says. “But if you please, I wish to be alone for a while.”
They slowly pry themselves away from their books and file through the heavy wooden doors, bowing and babbling well-wishes as they go. As the last one trundles through the door, a guard nods at her and draws the doors closed.
There. Silence. She takes the nearest seat and leans her head back and closes her eyes, trying to unwind.
“Whew, I thought those old guys would never leave!”
Her eyes flicker open again, and there's Zidane, half-leaning against the thick oak table.
“How did you know I'd be here,” she asks, not bothering to question how he got inside. He is, after all, a bandit.
“Well,” he starts, shifting closer to her, “it's hot as hell out there.” That settles the subject for him, as he immediately follows with: “are you coming to my show on Friday night?”
Her heart makes a small leap: she's been so busy lately that she'd nearly forgotten that he was starring in a new play. “Of course!”
“Will you … stay after?” His voice drops low, for fear of attracting the attention of the guards posted on the other side of the doors.
“Maybe,” she says, trying to fight the flush coming to her cheeks. “If you're good.”
He takes her hand in his and presses a kiss into her palm. “And if I'm bad?”
“You're not being very good right now.”
“I know.”
Zidane bends down to kiss her, and she rises from her chair to meet him. She surprises herself with how passionately she kisses him. How long has it been since they were last alone with each other? Weeks? A month? Long enough, anyway. His tongue is doing things to her that make it hard to think.
Before she knows it, she's the one leaning up against the oak table, her hands brushing aside the opened tomes left behind by the old scholars so that Zidane can lift her by the hips and hoist her onto the table. She grabs his waist and pulls him to her.
“It's hot,” he says between kisses, his eyes half-lidded.
“Mm,” she agrees, and tugs his cravat loose. He wriggles free of his vest and gloves, letting them fall to the floor. With that out of the way, he leans in again to trail kisses over her neck, her chest, her breasts. She arches back, reaching to loosen the bodice of her dress. Her breasts spill out of their binding, and Zidane cups one, running his tongue over her taut nipple. She muffles a cry and twines her hands in fistfuls of his blond hair, which has come all undone from the queue he normally keeps it in.
“I missed you,” he murmurs, finding her lips again. He slides a hand up her inner thigh to where she's waiting for him, hot and wet and wanting. Those nimble fingers of his, so well-practiced at thievery, are just as clever at working her until she nearly comes undone. He presses a kiss in that spot between her jawline and her earlobe, whispering “take me as a canary in your cage.”
She's always been weak to theatre, and Lord Avon's words have never sounded so salacious. It sends a jolt through her, and she parts her legs wider as an invitation. Quickly, he frees his arousal from his trousers with a sigh of relief, and leans her back against the table, cradling the back of her head with one hand, lest she bang it against the wood.
“Ready?” he breathes.
“Just do it,” she says, reaching down to guide him into her. She arches her hips up to meet him, pulling his length into her hard and fast.
She bites her lip, lest she cry out and get themselves discovered. When they're together in his tiny rented room, it's never like this. It's slow and languid and measured. But now there's nothing but urgency and sweat and their muffled cries as Zidane grinds her against the table. She doesn't care if she comes-she'll make sure he takes care of that when she slips into his little room after the show on Friday-all she wants is the immediacy of him stretching her out, filling her up, dismantling all her thoughts and worries.
“Dagger, I'm gonna-”
She doesn't let him finish the sentence, cutting him off with a deep kiss. He comes with a broken, muffled cry at the back of his throat as he empties himself into her. They break apart, panting, disheveled, and slick with sweat.
“Love you,” be burbles, only half-coherent and lying heavily on top of her.
“I love you too.” She lets him stay for several long moments. But the world is coming back into focus now: she has reports she needs to go over, audiences she needs to hear, and stacks of documents which require her signature. “Zidane, we need to get going.” She prods his shoulder to make the point.
“Mm, I just wanna stay like this,” Zidane sighs lazily. He sits up, tucks himself back into his trousers, and goes about securing his belt.
“Then the next time you break into my castle, make sure you sneak into my bed,” she chides.
Zidane bends himself over into a half-bow. “As her Majesty wishes,” he says with that crooked smile of his nearly splitting his face.
Garnet can't help but smile back. It's good to be the Queen.
It's the long, lazy part of the afternoon when Garnet prefers to excuse herself from her duties and walk in the gardens, or plant herself in the library with a book. Outside it is hot and muggy, so she opts for the library rather than battling the heat in her dress. As soon as the guards open the doors for her, announcing her presence, the resident scholars start making demands of her-they need these books, this much funding for archiving, more quills, and every one of them proposes a different room to expand the library into.
She wants to put her foot down and tell them exactly what they can do with their demands. But Garnet is a good queen, a nice queen, that sweet young woman carrying on in the shadow of her mother's tragic death. She takes a deep breath.
“If you could please submit your requests in writing to Doctor Tot, I will attend to them with due haste,” she says. “But if you please, I wish to be alone for a while.”
They slowly pry themselves away from their books and file through the heavy wooden doors, bowing and babbling well-wishes as they go. As the last one trundles through the door, a guard nods at her and draws the doors closed.
There. Silence. She takes the nearest seat and leans her head back and closes her eyes, trying to unwind.
“Whew, I thought those old guys would never leave!”
Her eyes flicker open again, and there's Zidane, half-leaning against the thick oak table.
“How did you know I'd be here,” she asks, not bothering to question how he got inside. He is, after all, a bandit.
“Well,” he starts, shifting closer to her, “it's hot as hell out there.” That settles the subject for him, as he immediately follows with: “are you coming to my show on Friday night?”
Her heart makes a small leap: she's been so busy lately that she'd nearly forgotten that he was starring in a new play. “Of course!”
“Will you … stay after?” His voice drops low, for fear of attracting the attention of the guards posted on the other side of the doors.
“Maybe,” she says, trying to fight the flush coming to her cheeks. “If you're good.”
He takes her hand in his and presses a kiss into her palm. “And if I'm bad?”
“You're not being very good right now.”
“I know.”
Zidane bends down to kiss her, and she rises from her chair to meet him. She surprises herself with how passionately she kisses him. How long has it been since they were last alone with each other? Weeks? A month? Long enough, anyway. His tongue is doing things to her that make it hard to think.
Before she knows it, she's the one leaning up against the oak table, her hands brushing aside the opened tomes left behind by the old scholars so that Zidane can lift her by the hips and hoist her onto the table. She grabs his waist and pulls him to her.
“It's hot,” he says between kisses, his eyes half-lidded.
“Mm,” she agrees, and tugs his cravat loose. He wriggles free of his vest and gloves, letting them fall to the floor. With that out of the way, he leans in again to trail kisses over her neck, her chest, her breasts. She arches back, reaching to loosen the bodice of her dress. Her breasts spill out of their binding, and Zidane cups one, running his tongue over her taut nipple. She muffles a cry and twines her hands in fistfuls of his blond hair, which has come all undone from the queue he normally keeps it in.
“I missed you,” he murmurs, finding her lips again. He slides a hand up her inner thigh to where she's waiting for him, hot and wet and wanting. Those nimble fingers of his, so well-practiced at thievery, are just as clever at working her until she nearly comes undone. He presses a kiss in that spot between her jawline and her earlobe, whispering “take me as a canary in your cage.”
She's always been weak to theatre, and Lord Avon's words have never sounded so salacious. It sends a jolt through her, and she parts her legs wider as an invitation. Quickly, he frees his arousal from his trousers with a sigh of relief, and leans her back against the table, cradling the back of her head with one hand, lest she bang it against the wood.
“Ready?” he breathes.
“Just do it,” she says, reaching down to guide him into her. She arches her hips up to meet him, pulling his length into her hard and fast.
She bites her lip, lest she cry out and get themselves discovered. When they're together in his tiny rented room, it's never like this. It's slow and languid and measured. But now there's nothing but urgency and sweat and their muffled cries as Zidane grinds her against the table. She doesn't care if she comes-she'll make sure he takes care of that when she slips into his little room after the show on Friday-all she wants is the immediacy of him stretching her out, filling her up, dismantling all her thoughts and worries.
“Dagger, I'm gonna-”
She doesn't let him finish the sentence, cutting him off with a deep kiss. He comes with a broken, muffled cry at the back of his throat as he empties himself into her. They break apart, panting, disheveled, and slick with sweat.
“Love you,” be burbles, only half-coherent and lying heavily on top of her.
“I love you too.” She lets him stay for several long moments. But the world is coming back into focus now: she has reports she needs to go over, audiences she needs to hear, and stacks of documents which require her signature. “Zidane, we need to get going.” She prods his shoulder to make the point.
“Mm, I just wanna stay like this,” Zidane sighs lazily. He sits up, tucks himself back into his trousers, and goes about securing his belt.
“Then the next time you break into my castle, make sure you sneak into my bed,” she chides.
Zidane bends himself over into a half-bow. “As her Majesty wishes,” he says with that crooked smile of his nearly splitting his face.
Garnet can't help but smile back. It's good to be the Queen.