Ah, politics in bed.
Reposting the Kinkfest doohickeys over here, the first.
Title: or suffer their author to breathe free air
Author:
Fandom: Final Fantasy Tactics
Pairing: Delita/Ovelia
Rating: Light R
Warning: It is not a spoiler that he becomes king and marries her. Everything else, though, may be.
Prompt: politics in bed - a diplomatic and mutually beneficial agreement
or suffer their author to breathe free air
Mithrigil
As any other night, she is abed first. Often, she is asleep when he deigns to follow, and wakes only to a coffinlike depression beside her in the great, soft bed. She rises early, to baths and maids and luxuries she is only beginning to think she deserves, or so she tells him; he has no reason to disbelieve her.
And as any other night of its kind, she is awake only for fitfulness, staring at the canopies, pinning the covers to her chest. It rains tonight, and heavily, but without clamor.
He circles the bed to his side of it, capping the candles as he goes. The groove-gripped metal of the snuffer is warm in his hand, its glint diminishing. His reflection in it contorts with the lessening light. Hers simply vanishes.
“If I may be bold,” she begins, her voice small and to him but her eyes still up on the cloth.
He snuffs the last candle. “You may always be free with me, Ovelia. It is what we stand for.”
“Right,” she says. “The privilege of all men to be heard. That a man may not be punished for his words.”
He hisses in the dark.
“Why?” she pants. “Why are you even discussing-”
“I told you I'd not discuss it. I have enough talk about burning my former allies in the throneroom, I'll not suffer any further appeals in bed.” He sits, the bed creaks, and he sets the candleslayer down. “Now go. To your maids, if you need to run off at the mouth.”
“You said I might be free with you.”
“And I you, and say I will no more of this.”
“What, my words have less power than yours?” She turns to him, he feels it in the swollen dark. He can barely see her to answer.
He shifts the covers and listens to them instead. “Oh, nothing could be farther from the truth. Without you to legitimize me, I am tyrant, not king.”
The bed protests as she turns away.
“That,” he says, and pauses, and edges nearer, “and my feelings for you, my desire to accommodate and please you, to protect you, to ensure your position and mine, all these affect the means by which I govern.” He finds her back and runs a hand down it, soothing the silk. “To know I have displeased you disturbs my slumber.”
“And here you have,” she mutters into the pillow. He feels the words.
That’s done. “It is a decision, wife,” he says as he defines his side of the bed. He is nearer the window; the curtains muffle the rain, but not enough.
The mattress lowers. She’s turned to him again. “And that decision goes against ‘what we stand for’.”
The King tries his damnedest not to growl. “It’s sedition. He would undo everything we’ve done.”
“He believes in the same thing you do. And that’s all he did. He said it.”
“It’s too soon for what he wants.” The King usually sleeps with his back to her, and it wakes him a bit to turn toward her. Her face is upturned, near enough to him for a kiss, but that is plainly not the aim of her lips right now. “The Church is too strong to be crushed,” he whispers, raising his hands to her cheeks, “stronger than we, and I bend to them now to sow the discontent of the future. What did you learn, in your time with Ramza?” He thumbs her temples. “The gap between my world and the one you know is shrinking, yes, but isn’t small enough to be jumped without consequence.”
Her skin is shaking cold. “You did it.”
He sighs. “Not without consequence.”
“Right,” she says again, the same inflection. “You became everything you hate and the world didn’t change at all.”
“Change can’t happen yet. Not without war.” Cupping her cheeks, he tilts nearer, until he can actually see her. “And you don’t want another one of those either,” he feels in her shiver. “That’s what would happen if I let the Papers circulate. War, not between factions and kings, would-be kings-the people against the Church.”
“The Church is-”
“Corrupt, Ovelia, I know,” he says, even though he doubts she meant to say that. “As well as you, if not better. And the Papers may well speak truly. But I cannot endorse them, or suffer their author to breathe free air, if I want to change things without more innocent people dying for causes they didn’t even want to be part of.” He’s pinning her. He barely marks it.
She snaps, withering, “Maybe things can change without your agency.”
He is over her, now, the sheets enshrouding them both, but his eyes know the darkness and hers sparkle faintly with anger, most likely. His voice is low, faster, and he lowers his body to hers. “The Corpse Brigade are villains still for decrying the need for a king. I am a hero still, because I became one. And in time, when the people are educated,” his lips brush her ear, “and equal, my successor will step down. It’s not about throwing off the yoke. It’s about…” His hands clench on her shoulder, her wrist. “It’s about turning around and telling the coachman, ‘we can take it from here’. And for that the pack has to know the route. And not just the route, they have to know enough to teach it to their children, and their children, and to negotiate with other carts-” He’s aligned with her. He’s-this is strange. “You see it. Tell me you see it.”
Her teeth flash, grit. “You are not a man for that age.”
“And I know it,” he whispers, sneering, on her lips, “and I hate it.”
“Ramza was.” Her pulse slows. “Olan is.”
“And the rest of the world is not.”
She had been tense; her arms hang unresponsive and heavy in his grasp, but her eyes are alive and plainly glaring, the poison, fading weapon of all women-and then she closes her eyes, sighs, tosses her head.
“No more talk of this,” he commands, or pleads, it is hard for even him to tell, and kisses her.
She lets him.
And it is not foremost in his mind, but there, that he will be locked out tomorrow night.
-----------
.
Title: or suffer their author to breathe free air
Author:
Fandom: Final Fantasy Tactics
Pairing: Delita/Ovelia
Rating: Light R
Warning: It is not a spoiler that he becomes king and marries her. Everything else, though, may be.
Prompt: politics in bed - a diplomatic and mutually beneficial agreement
or suffer their author to breathe free air
Mithrigil
As any other night, she is abed first. Often, she is asleep when he deigns to follow, and wakes only to a coffinlike depression beside her in the great, soft bed. She rises early, to baths and maids and luxuries she is only beginning to think she deserves, or so she tells him; he has no reason to disbelieve her.
And as any other night of its kind, she is awake only for fitfulness, staring at the canopies, pinning the covers to her chest. It rains tonight, and heavily, but without clamor.
He circles the bed to his side of it, capping the candles as he goes. The groove-gripped metal of the snuffer is warm in his hand, its glint diminishing. His reflection in it contorts with the lessening light. Hers simply vanishes.
“If I may be bold,” she begins, her voice small and to him but her eyes still up on the cloth.
He snuffs the last candle. “You may always be free with me, Ovelia. It is what we stand for.”
“Right,” she says. “The privilege of all men to be heard. That a man may not be punished for his words.”
He hisses in the dark.
“Why?” she pants. “Why are you even discussing-”
“I told you I'd not discuss it. I have enough talk about burning my former allies in the throneroom, I'll not suffer any further appeals in bed.” He sits, the bed creaks, and he sets the candleslayer down. “Now go. To your maids, if you need to run off at the mouth.”
“You said I might be free with you.”
“And I you, and say I will no more of this.”
“What, my words have less power than yours?” She turns to him, he feels it in the swollen dark. He can barely see her to answer.
He shifts the covers and listens to them instead. “Oh, nothing could be farther from the truth. Without you to legitimize me, I am tyrant, not king.”
The bed protests as she turns away.
“That,” he says, and pauses, and edges nearer, “and my feelings for you, my desire to accommodate and please you, to protect you, to ensure your position and mine, all these affect the means by which I govern.” He finds her back and runs a hand down it, soothing the silk. “To know I have displeased you disturbs my slumber.”
“And here you have,” she mutters into the pillow. He feels the words.
That’s done. “It is a decision, wife,” he says as he defines his side of the bed. He is nearer the window; the curtains muffle the rain, but not enough.
The mattress lowers. She’s turned to him again. “And that decision goes against ‘what we stand for’.”
The King tries his damnedest not to growl. “It’s sedition. He would undo everything we’ve done.”
“He believes in the same thing you do. And that’s all he did. He said it.”
“It’s too soon for what he wants.” The King usually sleeps with his back to her, and it wakes him a bit to turn toward her. Her face is upturned, near enough to him for a kiss, but that is plainly not the aim of her lips right now. “The Church is too strong to be crushed,” he whispers, raising his hands to her cheeks, “stronger than we, and I bend to them now to sow the discontent of the future. What did you learn, in your time with Ramza?” He thumbs her temples. “The gap between my world and the one you know is shrinking, yes, but isn’t small enough to be jumped without consequence.”
Her skin is shaking cold. “You did it.”
He sighs. “Not without consequence.”
“Right,” she says again, the same inflection. “You became everything you hate and the world didn’t change at all.”
“Change can’t happen yet. Not without war.” Cupping her cheeks, he tilts nearer, until he can actually see her. “And you don’t want another one of those either,” he feels in her shiver. “That’s what would happen if I let the Papers circulate. War, not between factions and kings, would-be kings-the people against the Church.”
“The Church is-”
“Corrupt, Ovelia, I know,” he says, even though he doubts she meant to say that. “As well as you, if not better. And the Papers may well speak truly. But I cannot endorse them, or suffer their author to breathe free air, if I want to change things without more innocent people dying for causes they didn’t even want to be part of.” He’s pinning her. He barely marks it.
She snaps, withering, “Maybe things can change without your agency.”
He is over her, now, the sheets enshrouding them both, but his eyes know the darkness and hers sparkle faintly with anger, most likely. His voice is low, faster, and he lowers his body to hers. “The Corpse Brigade are villains still for decrying the need for a king. I am a hero still, because I became one. And in time, when the people are educated,” his lips brush her ear, “and equal, my successor will step down. It’s not about throwing off the yoke. It’s about…” His hands clench on her shoulder, her wrist. “It’s about turning around and telling the coachman, ‘we can take it from here’. And for that the pack has to know the route. And not just the route, they have to know enough to teach it to their children, and their children, and to negotiate with other carts-” He’s aligned with her. He’s-this is strange. “You see it. Tell me you see it.”
Her teeth flash, grit. “You are not a man for that age.”
“And I know it,” he whispers, sneering, on her lips, “and I hate it.”
“Ramza was.” Her pulse slows. “Olan is.”
“And the rest of the world is not.”
She had been tense; her arms hang unresponsive and heavy in his grasp, but her eyes are alive and plainly glaring, the poison, fading weapon of all women-and then she closes her eyes, sighs, tosses her head.
“No more talk of this,” he commands, or pleads, it is hard for even him to tell, and kisses her.
She lets him.
And it is not foremost in his mind, but there, that he will be locked out tomorrow night.
-----------
.