Arria awoke in a cocoon of warmth and comfort, a feeling so alien it sent a rush of icy fear snaking down her spine. She stilled to assess her surroundings.
She was in the palace. His palace, tucked in a comfortable bed in the room assigned to her, wearing nothing but her smalls and a thin sleeping shift. She judged it to be the early hours of the morning. She must have finally slept, although it had not come easy.
A foreign sound to her left, like the scraping of paper, indicated that she was not alone.
She took a cautious peek over the edge of the down coverlet and saw Ulfric, lounging in a chair brought close to the fire. She remembered the flames dying down in the course of the night, during her fitful struggle to rest, but a recent stoking had them snapping with warmth, providing the only source of light in the room.
Ulfric himself was bowed low over a book, his strong, stubborn profile lit from behind. Her hungry gaze was drawn to his hands, so large and brutal and more suited to wielding an axe, as they carefully cradled the tome with almost gentle reverence. An image came suddenly to her mind of spending the cold nights of Evening Star sharing this very bed, her flesh warmed by the cover of those roughened palms and the seeking heat of his mouth.
The sweet sting of desire slid down her belly and she inhaled sharply. The sound was no louder than the hiss of the fire, but his head suddenly lifted, and the knowing pierce of his gaze found hers unerringly, despite the dark.
“You are awake.”
It was a simple observation, spoken in three simple words. But the low smoky timbre of his voice caressed her latent craving and left her incapable of the sharp response she might have given.
“I am. And you…you are here,” she finished lamely, sounding more groggy than reproachful.
“I am,” he echoed dryly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, the open book balanced precariously upon his right palm. “When you sleep, wife, you do not go quietly with the night.”
She should have made camp outside, as was her custom. Of all the enemies she had conquered, of all the monsters she had slaughtered, her nightmares yet eluded her.
“That does not give you right to invade my room,” she sniffed accusingly.
“I have a right to keep calm my own echoing walls, Arria.”
Her name on his lips was a sweet torment, and as if even the elements sought to taunt her, the wind kicked up with a howl, sending an eerie whistling throughout the room that went rattling down the narrow hallway. She pulled the cover to her chin and argued, “It could not have been worse than the moaning of this old keep.”
“No,” he agreed with a lazy shrug, “but matters were complicated when you called out my name.”
“I did no such thing!” She sat up with an indelicate snort, clutching the coverlet to her chest as a chill of foreboding slid down her spine.
Had she?
She dreamt of him, on occasion, but to think this weakness might have been vocalized within his hearing was more shame than she could stomach.
He leaned back in the chair again, and the firelight kissed half his face, dancing shadows over the rest. “I was not the only one to hear you call it. Seek you proof? Speak to Galmor when you break your fast. You called my name.”
He gave a satisfied nod at this proclamation, and leisurely stretched his legs out to cross his feet at the ankle. She was distracted by the bunched muscles on his thick thighs and calves, and it was then that she realized he was wearing nothing but a simple, wrapped robe.
She was too distracted to notice the irreverent gleam in his eye, as he added in a low voice, “You also called ‘husband’ on occasion. Galmor was even convinced he heard a plaintive ‘my love’ escape, here and there among the calls.”
Her cheeks heated as she realized finally that the insufferable Nord was teasing. Her fingers clenched in the coverlet, and she wished it was his thick neck she choked with her palms. He was smiling openly now at her distress, not even bothering to hide his amusement. In the flickering of light and shadow he looked positively diabolical.
And achingly desirable.
He was relaxed and self-satisfied and so divines-take-him-to-oblivion smug.
Never Our Tenderness (F!/DB Imperial/Ulfric Stormcloak) – 12a/14
She was in the palace. His palace, tucked in a comfortable bed in the room assigned to her, wearing nothing but her smalls and a thin sleeping shift. She judged it to be the early hours of the morning. She must have finally slept, although it had not come easy.
A foreign sound to her left, like the scraping of paper, indicated that she was not alone.
She took a cautious peek over the edge of the down coverlet and saw Ulfric, lounging in a chair brought close to the fire. She remembered the flames dying down in the course of the night, during her fitful struggle to rest, but a recent stoking had them snapping with warmth, providing the only source of light in the room.
Ulfric himself was bowed low over a book, his strong, stubborn profile lit from behind. Her hungry gaze was drawn to his hands, so large and brutal and more suited to wielding an axe, as they carefully cradled the tome with almost gentle reverence. An image came suddenly to her mind of spending the cold nights of Evening Star sharing this very bed, her flesh warmed by the cover of those roughened palms and the seeking heat of his mouth.
The sweet sting of desire slid down her belly and she inhaled sharply. The sound was no louder than the hiss of the fire, but his head suddenly lifted, and the knowing pierce of his gaze found hers unerringly, despite the dark.
“You are awake.”
It was a simple observation, spoken in three simple words. But the low smoky timbre of his voice caressed her latent craving and left her incapable of the sharp response she might have given.
“I am. And you…you are here,” she finished lamely, sounding more groggy than reproachful.
“I am,” he echoed dryly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, the open book balanced precariously upon his right palm. “When you sleep, wife, you do not go quietly with the night.”
She should have made camp outside, as was her custom. Of all the enemies she had conquered, of all the monsters she had slaughtered, her nightmares yet eluded her.
“That does not give you right to invade my room,” she sniffed accusingly.
“I have a right to keep calm my own echoing walls, Arria.”
Her name on his lips was a sweet torment, and as if even the elements sought to taunt her, the wind kicked up with a howl, sending an eerie whistling throughout the room that went rattling down the narrow hallway. She pulled the cover to her chin and argued, “It could not have been worse than the moaning of this old keep.”
“No,” he agreed with a lazy shrug, “but matters were complicated when you called out my name.”
“I did no such thing!” She sat up with an indelicate snort, clutching the coverlet to her chest as a chill of foreboding slid down her spine.
Had she?
She dreamt of him, on occasion, but to think this weakness might have been vocalized within his hearing was more shame than she could stomach.
He leaned back in the chair again, and the firelight kissed half his face, dancing shadows over the rest. “I was not the only one to hear you call it. Seek you proof? Speak to Galmor when you break your fast. You called my name.”
He gave a satisfied nod at this proclamation, and leisurely stretched his legs out to cross his feet at the ankle. She was distracted by the bunched muscles on his thick thighs and calves, and it was then that she realized he was wearing nothing but a simple, wrapped robe.
She was too distracted to notice the irreverent gleam in his eye, as he added in a low voice, “You also called ‘husband’ on occasion. Galmor was even convinced he heard a plaintive ‘my love’ escape, here and there among the calls.”
Her cheeks heated as she realized finally that the insufferable Nord was teasing. Her fingers clenched in the coverlet, and she wished it was his thick neck she choked with her palms. He was smiling openly now at her distress, not even bothering to hide his amusement. In the flickering of light and shadow he looked positively diabolical.
And achingly desirable.
He was relaxed and self-satisfied and so divines-take-him-to-oblivion smug.