Original: "The Foreign Prince." Slash
Good lord, all I've got to say is that it's a really good thing that I had a whole bunch of themes already written before this week, because the only new writing I've gotten done this week was finishing up my submission for Lt3 Press' Kiss Me at Midnight call (cross your fingers for me!). Anyway, here's this. Done for theme #6: Foreign.
Summary: Moroccus didn't mean to stick his foot in his mouth, but his betrothed might find a way to like him anyway.
Moroccus couldn’t stop staring.
He was here only because his father had ordered it. As a fifth son, he didn’t often get called upon to serve his kingdom, and he’d always known it was only a matter of time before his father found some use for him. He’d just never thought it’d be so pretty.
The king had called him into his study nearly a week ago, matter-of-factly informing his eighth child that he had finally arranged suitable placement for Moroccus. His father had been trying for some years to establish relations with their neighboring kingdom, and he’d been steadily gaining ground in his efforts. The only thing left, he’d told Moroccus, was to unite their families in marriage.
He’d known right then what his father intended for him, because he had no unwed sisters left and his father no doubt had bigger plans for his unwed elder brothers. Moroccus didn’t mind much, as he’d hardly had anyone else in mind. Trusting his father in choosing his partner for life wasn’t something he’d willingly do, though. He’d had the feeling the sorts of qualities his father would look for would be vastly different than what he might seek for himself.
If the delegation in front of him really was the marriage delegation, Moroccus would have to concede that his father might have done better for him than he likely would have done for himself.
Pretty really was the only way to describe the man standing in front of him. He stood demurely a couple of steps behind the delegation, the sunlight pouring into the throne room bringing out hints of gold in the brown curls that framed his face. They did nothing to obscure his bright green eyes, and he was dressed becomingly in the fashions of their northern neighbor, in the deepest of blacks. He couldn’t be sure, but Moroccus thought he could pick out a dusting of freckles across his nose too, though only because they stuck out against his pale skin.
One of the emissaries stepped forward, bowing deeply as he intoned with only a slight accent. “Your majesty, your highness, may I present to you, his royal highness, Arizmendi of Canton.” Arizmendi gave a graceful bow, long lashes dipping to brush his cheeks.
Moroccus and his father bowed shallowly in return, before Moroccus stepped lightly down the stairs off the dais, holding a welcoming hand out. He was pleasantly surprised to find that Arizmendi’s fingers held callouses and that it fit in his hand perfectly. Moroccus resisted the urge to brush a kiss across his knuckles, but only just barely. Unfortunately, he didn’t have quite the same control over his mouth. “I was told they had no daughters to send, but I can see they were obviously wrong,” he murmured, so only Arizmendi could hear him.
What little color he had drained from his face, the foreign prince’s green eyes flashing in anger, in a way that Moroccus probably shouldn’t think was even prettier. With the king and his own retinue watching on, however, he couldn’t outwardly react, so Arizmendi settled for leveling him with a glare, gaze promising imminent retribution.
Moroccus had only to wait until that night for Arizmendi’s revenge. At the welcome ball, they were called upon to lead the first dance. Under the guise of exhausted clumsiness, Arizmendi managed to tread on his feet no less than seven times and he even managed to get an elbow into Moroccus’ ribs when they turned in close.
Moroccus was honestly rather impressed with his betrothed. Arizmendi had already managed to upset a soup tureen in his lap, necessitating a wardrobe change and apparently giving Arizmendi the opportunity to surreptitiously over salt his food. He’d smiled sweetly as Moroccus had fought to hide a grimace through the first surprising mouthfuls, but his smugness had slipped away as Moroccus had started grinning, almost looking like he enjoyed the food, strangely enamored of the man glaring at him in confusion.
He could see the moment Arizmendi finally lost his temper with the whole thing, clamping a hand around his wrist and all but dragging him from the ballroom floor. He stopped when they were far from the strains of the music, on a slightly shadowed balcony off the hallway leading from the ballroom. “What is wrong with you? Why have you been so damnably cheerful all night? You are the most infuriating man I have ever had the misfortune of being betrothed to and I -”
Moroccus didn’t think it would really help matters, but he couldn’t stop himself from leaning forward and capturing Arizmendi’s lips, effectively cutting off his rant. He pulled back several long moments later, rather pleased with the dazed look on Arizmendi’s face and completely unprepared for his betrothed’s fist.
It probably said something unflattering about him that he couldn’t pick himself off the floor for a minute because he was laughing too hard. Arizmendi stood stock still, trading equally horrified looks between Moroccus and his still-clenched fist. “Are you completely mad?” Arizmendi hissed. “Why would you - why did you - what -”
“You will give yourself apoplexy if you keep on like that,” Moroccus cut in cheerfully, picking himself up and grinning stupidly at Arizmendi. “Which would be a shame considering I am already rather fond of you. I would never have suspected my father of being a good judge of compatibilities, but certainly he knew what he was about when he agreed to our betrothal.”
Arizmendi’s horror was slowly dissipating to be replaced with confusion, which Moroccus took as a positive step. “You…what?”
Moroccus laughed, because life was wonderful, and his betrothed was wonderful, and his father was rather wonderful too. “Let us start anew, shall we? Prince Arizmendi, it is my genuine pleasure to welcome you to our kingdom and I am delighted to find that you are nothing like the timid, demure princeling I took you to be, because you are so very pretty. I apologize profusely for the assumptions I made and for implying that you were a girl, albeit a very beautiful one. Oh, I also apologize for thinking of sneaking a snake into your bed.” He finished by sweeping his grandest and most graceful bow and grinning up at Arizmendi.
The foreign prince looked completely overwhelmed, a faint flush high on his cheeks. “Did you just call me pretty?”
“Twice,” was his cheeky answer. “I would do so again, but I am unsure of your probable reaction.”
“I…” Arizmendi shook his head as though to clear it, then swept Moroccus a remarkably elegant bow, a bemused smile quirking his lips. “You are not at all what I took you to be.”
Moroccus wanted to leap forward to steal another kiss, but he settled for beaming at Arizmendi instead. “I am pleased to say, neither are you.” Still grinning, he offered the prince his arm and led him back to the ball. There would be time to seduce his betrothed soon enough.
Summary: Moroccus didn't mean to stick his foot in his mouth, but his betrothed might find a way to like him anyway.
Moroccus couldn’t stop staring.
He was here only because his father had ordered it. As a fifth son, he didn’t often get called upon to serve his kingdom, and he’d always known it was only a matter of time before his father found some use for him. He’d just never thought it’d be so pretty.
The king had called him into his study nearly a week ago, matter-of-factly informing his eighth child that he had finally arranged suitable placement for Moroccus. His father had been trying for some years to establish relations with their neighboring kingdom, and he’d been steadily gaining ground in his efforts. The only thing left, he’d told Moroccus, was to unite their families in marriage.
He’d known right then what his father intended for him, because he had no unwed sisters left and his father no doubt had bigger plans for his unwed elder brothers. Moroccus didn’t mind much, as he’d hardly had anyone else in mind. Trusting his father in choosing his partner for life wasn’t something he’d willingly do, though. He’d had the feeling the sorts of qualities his father would look for would be vastly different than what he might seek for himself.
If the delegation in front of him really was the marriage delegation, Moroccus would have to concede that his father might have done better for him than he likely would have done for himself.
Pretty really was the only way to describe the man standing in front of him. He stood demurely a couple of steps behind the delegation, the sunlight pouring into the throne room bringing out hints of gold in the brown curls that framed his face. They did nothing to obscure his bright green eyes, and he was dressed becomingly in the fashions of their northern neighbor, in the deepest of blacks. He couldn’t be sure, but Moroccus thought he could pick out a dusting of freckles across his nose too, though only because they stuck out against his pale skin.
One of the emissaries stepped forward, bowing deeply as he intoned with only a slight accent. “Your majesty, your highness, may I present to you, his royal highness, Arizmendi of Canton.” Arizmendi gave a graceful bow, long lashes dipping to brush his cheeks.
Moroccus and his father bowed shallowly in return, before Moroccus stepped lightly down the stairs off the dais, holding a welcoming hand out. He was pleasantly surprised to find that Arizmendi’s fingers held callouses and that it fit in his hand perfectly. Moroccus resisted the urge to brush a kiss across his knuckles, but only just barely. Unfortunately, he didn’t have quite the same control over his mouth. “I was told they had no daughters to send, but I can see they were obviously wrong,” he murmured, so only Arizmendi could hear him.
What little color he had drained from his face, the foreign prince’s green eyes flashing in anger, in a way that Moroccus probably shouldn’t think was even prettier. With the king and his own retinue watching on, however, he couldn’t outwardly react, so Arizmendi settled for leveling him with a glare, gaze promising imminent retribution.
Moroccus had only to wait until that night for Arizmendi’s revenge. At the welcome ball, they were called upon to lead the first dance. Under the guise of exhausted clumsiness, Arizmendi managed to tread on his feet no less than seven times and he even managed to get an elbow into Moroccus’ ribs when they turned in close.
Moroccus was honestly rather impressed with his betrothed. Arizmendi had already managed to upset a soup tureen in his lap, necessitating a wardrobe change and apparently giving Arizmendi the opportunity to surreptitiously over salt his food. He’d smiled sweetly as Moroccus had fought to hide a grimace through the first surprising mouthfuls, but his smugness had slipped away as Moroccus had started grinning, almost looking like he enjoyed the food, strangely enamored of the man glaring at him in confusion.
He could see the moment Arizmendi finally lost his temper with the whole thing, clamping a hand around his wrist and all but dragging him from the ballroom floor. He stopped when they were far from the strains of the music, on a slightly shadowed balcony off the hallway leading from the ballroom. “What is wrong with you? Why have you been so damnably cheerful all night? You are the most infuriating man I have ever had the misfortune of being betrothed to and I -”
Moroccus didn’t think it would really help matters, but he couldn’t stop himself from leaning forward and capturing Arizmendi’s lips, effectively cutting off his rant. He pulled back several long moments later, rather pleased with the dazed look on Arizmendi’s face and completely unprepared for his betrothed’s fist.
It probably said something unflattering about him that he couldn’t pick himself off the floor for a minute because he was laughing too hard. Arizmendi stood stock still, trading equally horrified looks between Moroccus and his still-clenched fist. “Are you completely mad?” Arizmendi hissed. “Why would you - why did you - what -”
“You will give yourself apoplexy if you keep on like that,” Moroccus cut in cheerfully, picking himself up and grinning stupidly at Arizmendi. “Which would be a shame considering I am already rather fond of you. I would never have suspected my father of being a good judge of compatibilities, but certainly he knew what he was about when he agreed to our betrothal.”
Arizmendi’s horror was slowly dissipating to be replaced with confusion, which Moroccus took as a positive step. “You…what?”
Moroccus laughed, because life was wonderful, and his betrothed was wonderful, and his father was rather wonderful too. “Let us start anew, shall we? Prince Arizmendi, it is my genuine pleasure to welcome you to our kingdom and I am delighted to find that you are nothing like the timid, demure princeling I took you to be, because you are so very pretty. I apologize profusely for the assumptions I made and for implying that you were a girl, albeit a very beautiful one. Oh, I also apologize for thinking of sneaking a snake into your bed.” He finished by sweeping his grandest and most graceful bow and grinning up at Arizmendi.
The foreign prince looked completely overwhelmed, a faint flush high on his cheeks. “Did you just call me pretty?”
“Twice,” was his cheeky answer. “I would do so again, but I am unsure of your probable reaction.”
“I…” Arizmendi shook his head as though to clear it, then swept Moroccus a remarkably elegant bow, a bemused smile quirking his lips. “You are not at all what I took you to be.”
Moroccus wanted to leap forward to steal another kiss, but he settled for beaming at Arizmendi instead. “I am pleased to say, neither are you.” Still grinning, he offered the prince his arm and led him back to the ball. There would be time to seduce his betrothed soon enough.