Final Fantasy Tactics and happy valentines. Fun for the whole family, to be sure!
I'm really not sure why 'cute Valentine's couple-y fic' and 'Delita and Ovelia' ever chanced to end up in the same brainwave. I can only blame it on the fact that my Delita is just totally weird like that. But not so much with the cute. So, uh. Have at it.
“… oh, Delita,” said Ovelia, touching her lips. “Oh, Delita no.”
His Majesty attempted some show of humility. “Is it not to your liking? It’s your favorite color.”
It was. Red as her cheeks, even. She was sure of it. “It’s beautiful, but…”
He tilted his head at her. “But?”
“I could never wear this!” Ovelia burst out, turning away from him, wringing her hands. The queen found she did that more and more often, where her husband was concerned. “I. This. It’s too much.”
“Too much…?”
He knew exactly what she meant. “Delita.”
“Too bright? Too expensive? Too flattering?”
He’d bent over to say that last part near her ear. She turned her head away. “Yes.”
“Yes to..?”
“All of that.”
“You wanted to wear convent brown to our wedding,” he noted. Ovelia clicked her tongue at him.
“I did not. I simply felt…it’s all a little excessive, isn’t it? How can I in good conscience wear such luxury when my people--” He was giving her that one look again; that one where he was about to say something especially snide. Well. “Queen Ruvelia wore ornate royal gowns until the very day we took her to trial for crimes against Crown and Kingdom.”
“And stayed dressed in those royal gowns until the very hour we locked her back in that tower for life,” agreed Delita. “But the talk was never about what she wore. It was more what she didn’t wear, and in what company, and whether or not they were a close relative. Something I don’t think you have to worry about too much, Your Majesty.” He paused. “Except for your association with the Count Durai. People seem to enjoy wondering about that one.”
Ovelia covered her face. “Oh, God.”
“Exactly. What a Godly pair we are! Beautiful in the eyes of the Church and the eyes of our subjects! What wickedness could we ever be capable of? Except to each other.” Such enthusiasm dripped from his words that her hands slipped off of her eyes so that she might gaze at him flatly once more. He took this as permission to peel her fingers away, placing his own between them, gently nudging her hands down. He was broad shouldered and quite tall, and he suddenly filled her whole view. “Ovelia. It’s a dress.”
“How it vexes me,” she whispered, shivering in spite of the terrible heat of his face bent so near. “When you use my name so.”
“It is your birthday, and I’ve brought you a dress.” His thumb circled the back of her hand. “It’s lovely, you’re lovely, and I think you would look lovely in it. Believe me when I say it’s nothing more complicated than that.”
“It is…” Always more complicated than that, she was going to say, but he leaned in to kiss her. “I would rather it be flowers. They’re simpler,” she muttered as he pulled back; her lips considerably warmer, his smile considerably smugger.
“Check the bedcovers,” he said.
And a whole garden’s massacre was exactly what she found.
“… oh, Delita,” said Ovelia, touching her lips. “Oh, Delita no.”
His Majesty attempted some show of humility. “Is it not to your liking? It’s your favorite color.”
It was. Red as her cheeks, even. She was sure of it. “It’s beautiful, but…”
He tilted his head at her. “But?”
“I could never wear this!” Ovelia burst out, turning away from him, wringing her hands. The queen found she did that more and more often, where her husband was concerned. “I. This. It’s too much.”
“Too much…?”
He knew exactly what she meant. “Delita.”
“Too bright? Too expensive? Too flattering?”
He’d bent over to say that last part near her ear. She turned her head away. “Yes.”
“Yes to..?”
“All of that.”
“You wanted to wear convent brown to our wedding,” he noted. Ovelia clicked her tongue at him.
“I did not. I simply felt…it’s all a little excessive, isn’t it? How can I in good conscience wear such luxury when my people--” He was giving her that one look again; that one where he was about to say something especially snide. Well. “Queen Ruvelia wore ornate royal gowns until the very day we took her to trial for crimes against Crown and Kingdom.”
“And stayed dressed in those royal gowns until the very hour we locked her back in that tower for life,” agreed Delita. “But the talk was never about what she wore. It was more what she didn’t wear, and in what company, and whether or not they were a close relative. Something I don’t think you have to worry about too much, Your Majesty.” He paused. “Except for your association with the Count Durai. People seem to enjoy wondering about that one.”
Ovelia covered her face. “Oh, God.”
“Exactly. What a Godly pair we are! Beautiful in the eyes of the Church and the eyes of our subjects! What wickedness could we ever be capable of? Except to each other.” Such enthusiasm dripped from his words that her hands slipped off of her eyes so that she might gaze at him flatly once more. He took this as permission to peel her fingers away, placing his own between them, gently nudging her hands down. He was broad shouldered and quite tall, and he suddenly filled her whole view. “Ovelia. It’s a dress.”
“How it vexes me,” she whispered, shivering in spite of the terrible heat of his face bent so near. “When you use my name so.”
“It is your birthday, and I’ve brought you a dress.” His thumb circled the back of her hand. “It’s lovely, you’re lovely, and I think you would look lovely in it. Believe me when I say it’s nothing more complicated than that.”
“It is…” Always more complicated than that, she was going to say, but he leaned in to kiss her. “I would rather it be flowers. They’re simpler,” she muttered as he pulled back; her lips considerably warmer, his smile considerably smugger.
“Check the bedcovers,” he said.
And a whole garden’s massacre was exactly what she found.