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Petty Jealousy — Hadrian, Alessa, Alain, Ysabella & Lance
🕑 Added 2025-06-27 14:46:00 +0000 UTCHadrian is restless.
The type of turmoil that would have him pacing back and forth, hand on his cross, an itch in his jaw, trying to outpace the thoughts swirling in his head.
But he can't. He has to stay seated; his only respite is the knee bouncing beneath the table.
"Lord," Hadrian whispers, dragging a hand down his face. If Alessa were here, she'd call him a fool. "I'm being one," he mutters.
But he doesn't care as much as he should. Not as his eyes slid towards you once more, and he sees your profile bathed in light. Father Above. It should be forbidden, Hadrian thinks, for someone to hold that much appeal. The great hall is full of people, but Hadrian can't see anyone else.
There's only you. Standing there in a simple tunic, eyes twinkling, wearing the kind of smile that leaves him a blubbering fool. Talking...
... with him.
His mouth was smiling, but now, it's back to frowning again. And it's ugly, it's underserving, this dark feeling bubbling to the surface. It coils in his chest like smoke that won't clear. Hadrian's knee bounces quicker now, his jaw itches, and his hand slowly curls on his cross.
And then, the older man moves and brushes away a strand of hair on your forehead.
It's underserved. He trusts you. He'd lay down his life in your name.
But Hadrian stands up.
★
"... there you go," Sam says, flicking away a speck of dust.
"Thank you,” you say distractedly. "Now, tell me, where was this exactly?"
"South of Salamanca," Sam reveals. "About four days' ride if your steed is fast and sturdy."
"Salamanca," you mutter, picturing the rudimentary maps in your mind's eyes. "Isn't that near the big excavation site from a few years back?"
Sam smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes. "The very one. This spot is undiscovered, though. No settlements nearby. No signs of our friends in black robes. It was only by a stroke of luck that I stumbled onto it."
You doubt it was luck, but wisely, you stay quiet.
"The Lord can be generous when He wants to." Sam pauses, assessing you. You try to keep a neutral face, but even you can tell that hunger is shining in your eyes. "So? Are you in? I could use someone with your expertise—"
He snaps his mouth closed. Sam's intelligent eyes snap to something over your shoulder before his mouth spreads in his usual cold smile. "We have company."
You don't have time to turn around before a big hand closes around your arm. "Aren't you hungry, love?" Hadrian's warm breath tickles the crown of your head. You tilt your face up, but instead of his green eyes meeting yours, Hadrian stares at Sam. "I got us our food."
You blink. "So fast?"
Hadrian's thumb draws a circle on the skin of your forearm. You feel him stepping closer to your back. "It'll get cold," Hadrian says, finally tearing his eyes off Sam to look down at you. The moment he does, Hadrian smiles, but you can see the tension between his brows.
Was he feeling lonely? Or is the bread gone already? You know how much he loves bread with stew.
Sam's smile never falters. His translucent eyes flicker from you to Hadrian and, finally, back to you. "We'll talk details after supper," he says, taking a fluent step back. His voice lowers as he adds, right before turning. "You can bring your attack dog with you."
Hadrian stiffens behind you, taking half a step forward, but stops when you turn around to face him. "They didn't have bread left?" you ask.
It's Hadrian's turn to blink. "Uh, what?"
You bring a finger to his brow. "Why are you frowning?"
Wordlessly, Hadrian lifts a hand to intertwine your fingers together. "Come with me," he says, kissing your knuckles before tugging you gently. You move past the mercenaries, helpers, servants, and guests of the White Company, aiming for your spot on the long table underneath the window.
As you're walking, Hadrian suddenly speaks up again. "Bring where?" he asks, his voice a quiet rumble.
"Hmm?"
"Sam said you could bring me," he clarifies. His face is also strangely still. "Where to?"
You look around, then lean in. "He found an untouched site," you whisper in his ear. "With possible monuments. Untouched monuments, Hadrian." The words speed up, your excitement bleeding into the tone. "Do you know what this means? What it can mean?"
Hadrian stops walking to look down at you. "You—" He scratches his stubble. "You were, uh, talking business?"
"What else? It's Sam." You wave a hand, dismissing the name. "Look, I know we just returned from a mission, and you're tired, so I understand if you don't want to go, but—"
Hadrian shuts you up with a kiss. "Hmph!" Your eyes go wide when his arms circle your waist, your body dragged to press against his. It's uncommon for Hadrian to hold you like this in public, with the pads of his fingers digging into your flesh.
Hadrian barely moves his lips; it's more of a press of mouths, a gesture that feels oddly possessive and strangely attractive. "Of course, I'll go," Hadrian promises when he parts, cheeks flushed red with the jeering whistles from the group near you. “God Himself couldn’t keep me away.”
You smile, dazed and vaguely confused, but you like the fluttering in your chest. "It’s a deal."
★
You get to your table, hand in hand.
"Hadrian?"
"Yes, angel?" Hadrian says, smiling a boyish, lopsided smile at you.
"Where's our food?"
"... I'll be right back."
- - -
Alessa stares at the bracelet on her palm.
It's a simple golden circle with a minuscule dent that would be easy to miss if it didn't interrupt the otherwise perfect circle. Alessa owns better jewelry. Better crafted, better fitted to her wrist, with purer gold, and without the rudimentary words scribbled on the inside band.
Alessa owns better jewelry. But none is more precious than this.
She looks up and is met with your tilted lips, but Alessa knows you well enough to see the restlessness in your eyes. "Got anything to say, beautiful?"
Alessa looks down at the gift again. There's a knot on her throat and a burn behind her eyes. "You have made this?" Alessa asks, her voice not betraying the emotion stirring beneath the ice she keeps around herself.
You nod, eyes flickering from the bracelet to her face. "That obvious, uh?"
Alessa sweeps her thumb over the words inscribed in the band. 'For Alessa.'
"You have written this." It's not a question.
You take a step closer, halt, and then back down again. "I wanted to write more," you admit with a casual shrug. "But I was afraid I'd break the band. 'For Alessa' was all I could manage."
Finally, finally, Alessa looks into your eyes. Her fingers close around the bracelet. "Darling one," she says, her voice almost breaking. Almost. "This is the most precious thing I owe."
The relief is instantaneous. You smile, really smile, and then release the most dramatic sigh Alessa has ever heard. "God’s bloody nails," you say, moving closer to wrap an arm around her shoulders. "You love to make me suffer, woman," you mutter, pulling her into your embrace.
"I do enjoy seeing you fidget," Alessa whispers, fitting her face in the crook of your neck, holding back the tears from spilling. She shall not cry. Not in front of you, at least. But her heart is squeezing painfully, filled with a feeling she cannot express as she would like to.
As if you could read her turmoil, you rub gentle circles on her back. "You sure you like it? No need to spare my feelings, you know? You can tell me; I can take it."
Alessa smiles against your skin. "I do not like it," she says, planting a kiss on your neck. "I adore it."
You hold her tighter. "Good. Because I lied. I couldn't take it."
Alessa laughs quietly, and you simply hold her. You know, somehow, that she cannot face you yet. She needs to remain hidden in your embrace for a while longer.
Your voice brushes the fine hairs near her ear. "Muriel will be ecstatic."
Alessa opens her eyes. "Muriel?"
She feels you hum. "My teacher," you explain, hand moving up and down her shoulder. "You didn't think I'd take up jewelry making alone, did you? I know I'm good, 'Lessa, but even I have my limits."
Slowly, Alessa lifts her head. Calm, blue eyes gaze at you. "I did not consider it," she says, voice like a still lake.
You bop her nose. "I've been sneaking away to the workshop," you admit, full of smug confidence. "As many evenings as I could. Muriel's a master, Alessa; you should see her work. I've never seen a woman, nay, anyone, move the way she does."
She does not mean to, but a hideous, unsightly beast sinks its claws into her chest. Alessa goes rigid. She has never heard you speak of another in this manner... beside herself.
"... fluent, precise. And a good teacher." You're still singing praises to this... Muriel, not even noticing how Alessa is pulling away from you. You, who are always so attuned with her. "She's not overbeating, you know? She shows you. Grabs your hands and guides you—"
"She holds your hands?" Alessa interjects. You do not hear it, the chill in her tone.
"How else would she teach me?" you ask as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "Written letters? Songs in the wind?"
"And how do those lessons proceed?" Alessa asks. She's holding your bracelet, your gift to her, but she cannot help it. You are speaking of another woman — a woman you have been spending time alone with in secrecy — and Alessa knows it is bordering on insanity. But she cannot help it. "Please, enlighten me."
You go to speak, but stop. With a cocked brow, you look at her, eyes searching hers. "Oh, I've done it," you mutter before speaking up, "what's wrong?"
Alessa thins her mouth. "I know not. If this Muriel has guided your hands, then who was it that made this gift? You or her?"
You tilt your head, and a part of her, the sane part, flinches at the confusion on your darling face. "It was me, of course. I made it alone."
"With her hovering above you, no doubt."
You stare at her. Alessa clenches her jaw and forces herself to stare back. And then, slowly, she sees your growing smile, the knowing look in your eyes that has knots forming in her stomach. "Alessa," you drawl, suddenly pulling her back to you. Oh, and it's smug, now, that tone of yours.
Alessa tries to stay unperturbed, but it is so hard when your palm fits along her jaw, tilting her face to yours. "’Lessa, ‘Lessa," you say, lips almost touching her. "Muriel is an elderly married woman."
A beat of silence. Two.
"... I fail to see how that is relevant."
But when you laugh, she cannot help but smile, relief and embarrassment painting her cheeks pink. You kiss her, then, sloppily as Alessa slips the bracelet onto her wrist.
It is flawed but perfect.
"Like it?" you murmur against her temple.
She hums, tilting her head, stealing another taste of your lips. "I do have a request, dearest one."
"Tell me."
"Introduce me to your teacher," Alessa demands, hand closing on your shirt. "I shall craft you a collar."
- - -
The event was going as all the others always went.
A band played soft, entirely predictable music, the same kind of food was served on silver platters, lit chandeliers hung from high ceilings, and the dresses and tunics of his fellow nobles all fit within the latest fashion trend.
At least the wine was flowing, Alain supposed.
"By next winter, at the most."
The Theer brings his dulled eyes to the pair in front of him. The man, barely more than a boy, is flapping his red mouth. "We're tightening taxes on our peasants."
"The inherent tax was a brilliant proposition," the lady speaks next, her lips curled in what Alain guesses she takes as a sensual smile. "Your Lord uncle is truly a visionary, master Alain."
The boy-man steps closer. "As you are, I am certain," he declares, sporting the same ugly smile as his cousin.
Alain takes a sip of wine. So, this was a competition between them. On any other day, Alain would have appreciated the break in the monotony. "How old are you?" he asks flippantly.
They share a look. "Me?" the lady asks.
Alain points his glass at the boy.
He hesitates. "I'm nineteen summers."
"Oh?" There's movement behind the liar's head. Alain's deep brown eyes track it, and he finds the person he's been waiting for this whole tedious evening.
You walk in, attire more muted than the head servant, barely any jewelry, no coat or veil on your body. But, somehow, you light up the hall brighter than a shooting star. Alain's mood immediately lifts, the wine turns sweeter, and his smile loses its bitterness.
But then you turn and lay your hand on Lord Thomas's arm.
"There's not a hair on your face, boy," Alain spits, drowning the entire glass. "Tell your parents not to whore you out so soon."
With that, he slinks away.
The pair of cousins stared dumbfounded at his back.
★
The whole night is a blur.
You find a moment alone and practically run outside, breathing in the fresh air. The gardens are dark, the moon is almost full, and, in the distance, you can see the soft, magical glow of fireflies. You sigh, elbows on the stone banister, eyeing them with envy. You wish you could go, but you have a mission to fulfill.
And you won't waste this invitation Alain crafted for you.
With another sigh, you turn around, eyeing the impressive estate. Stories upon stories loom over you, and in there, somewhere, is the room you need to break into.
Soft laughter drifts to your ears, and, dragging your eyes down, you spot a pair underneath the glass doors leading to the garden. They're intertwined, one laughing, the other leading along—
Your eyes cross.
And your breath hitches when you find yourself staring at Alain. He pauses, his smile faltering for a moment only, before he turns his head, murmurs something in the woman's ear, and, as if riding himself off an overcoat, Alain disentangles from her to stroll towards you.
You lean on the railing, wiping the sudden sweat from your palm. You didn't know he'd come. You don't know why there's a twist in your gut as the noble props himself beside you.
"Here I was thinking you wasted all my hard work," Alain says, cracking his neck from side to side.
You glance at him, but he stares at the estate, his lips curled in a lazy grin. "I wouldn't dream of it," you say, following his gaze. "Alain Theer working is so rare, I'd be a fool to squander it."
His soft chuckle has a flush rising up your spine. His elbow brushes yours, and you can almost feel the heat of his body against the chill of the night. "And yet, you're lounging here alone, little warrior. Some would call it pathetic."
"Is that why you came near?" you shoot back. "You want to make sure I'm not pathetic?"
Alain turns his head towards you. He wears that damn smile so well, fitting right in his handsome face. "You're thinking too highly of yourself. This is my usual spot. I’m simply here to claim it."
"So, usually, you're the pathetic one?"
"Exactly."
You laugh, shaking your head lightly. The garments you're wearing are heavy and uncomfortable, and they make you feel awkward standing here beside him. "I needed... some fresh air," you admit in a lower voice.
Your eyes drift down when Alain's eyes study you. He can be intense when he wants, seeing too much. There's a beat of silence that grazes on your nerves, but finally, he breaks it. "You can do better, you know?"
You look up. "What do you mean?"
Alain juts his chin at the estate. There, you can see the silhouette of Lord Thomas, the one you chose to use as part of your disguise. It was surprising how easily he was convinced that you were of noble birth.
You supposed having Alain's backing helped. "Better than Thomas? He's a high noble, isn't he?" you ask, nervous that you made a mistake.
Alain cocks a brow. "I suppose you can call him that. Loosely."
"He'll get me in the inner chambers; that's all that matters," you say. And he'll be easy to evade once you do.
Alain shakes his head as if in deep disappointment. "I think I overestimated you, sparrow. Really? Don't you strive for something greater?"
You roll your eyes but indulge him. It's hard not to when he's grinning like that, his collar half-undone and legs casually crossed. "Who should I have gone for, then? You're clearly dying to tell me."
Something flashes in his eyes so quickly that you almost believe you imagined it. But it vanishes right away, and his tone is teasing when he points at a large open window. "How about him?" he proposes.
You follow his gaze to a decrepit old man. "How's he any better?" you ask, fighting back a smile.
"Hmm." Alain taps his fingers on his chin, pretending to think. "Alright, and her?"
He points at the gardens next, where an elegant woman is speaking with a servant. "Isn't she the mistress of the house?" you ask. "Do you think her husband would have welcomed me with open arms?"
Alain clicks his tongue. "I didn't know you were this picky," he says, but thinks again. "Hmm, let's see. Who's important enough to be invited to the upper dinner, would be accepted to spend the night without question, knows who you really are, and would help you in this silly mission of yours, and is incredibly good-looking?"
Alain turns to you, and suddenly, his grin doesn't reach his eyes. "I wonder, sparrow, who'd fit the part?"
You open your mouth and close it. His gaze has you fixed on the floor. "I— I didn't think you'd be here—"
"Your Grace!"
You both turn your heads to the door, where the woman previously hanging from Alain's arm is waving. "I'm lonely; how long do you plan on making me wait?"
"None at all," Alain answers back before straightening up. He grants you one last smile, tilted and teasing but almost solemn, too. "Have a good night, sparrow," Alain whispers, bows, and walks away.
Your hands curl on the railing. "You as well, Alain."
- - -
You give her your hand. "How courteous," Ysabella teases, but she gingerly places her gloved palm in yours and steps down the carriage.
You grunt in answer, making sure she's got both feet on the ground before letting go.
Ysabella glances at you, her lips curling at the corners to stop herself from reaching out and kissing your cheek. How gallant you are. Strong, silent, and brooding. Your upper half is encased in a rudimentary hide armor that leaves your strong biceps to be admired by the world, and Ysabella is no shy maiden. Admire you, she shall.
Her eyes trail up your arms to your shoulders, then the planes of your back. Her smile turns wicked as she sees in her mind's eye the red trails marring the skin beneath the armor. She's glad they're covered, however. That sight is meant for her eyes only.
"Stop it."
Ysabella blinks, looking up at you. You're half-turned away from her, peeking over your shoulder to fix her a dry stare.
"Stop what?" she asks innocently.
Ysabella adores the way you clench your jaw, the muscle moving beneath the skin. "You know what."
She steps closer, trailing light fingers over your arm. "I really don't, dear."
You shuffle to the side, just enough for her hand to fall off. "You're ogling me," you mutter, your voice stiff as if you're pulling teeth, and Ysabella cannot help it.
She giggles like a church girl hearing about babies for the first time. "Can you blame me? Have you looked in the mirror today, my sweet?"
Your gloved hand clenches, and the sight would be intimidating if Ysabella couldn't see the faint blush blooming on your cheeks. Oh, but she wants to pinch them both. "People can see us," you add in a low voice. You look away from her, scowling at the world at large. "And I told you not to call me that."
"People won't blame me either." Ysabella dismisses it and then leans in. "And you like it when I call you sweet."
Another clench of your jaw. Another flinch of your hand. "... in private."
She giggles again. You finally have had enough and turn your back on her, clutching the pommel of your sword as if an army is about to invade.
You're standing at the entrance of a grandiose estate. The large stables loom behind, where mounts and carriages are carried for maintenance. Servants, guards, and stable hands rush to and fro, none paying too much attention.
The day is sunny but not hot, so Ysabella decides to wait for her family outside. Her mercenary is here, of course, in the disguise of her personal guard. A disguise you're taking a bit too seriously.
"Have you water?" Ysabella asks, stepping up to you. She eyes the luscious terrains ahead, gentle hills, oak trees, and gravel roads.
You uncord your water pouch and give it to her. She drinks greedily, not having noticed how parched her throat was, before giving it back. "Thank you—"
You reach out, and a gentle finger swipes the corner of her mouth. Ysabella pauses, looking up, as you gather a drop of water as if it's a bead of gold. "You're messy," you gruff, staring at her lips.
"That is no way to speak with your lady."
You put your hand behind your back, a respectable distance between you, but your eyes burn into her own. "What about my lover?" you ask, your voice that delicious coil of huskiness and smoke.
She feels her face heating before she sees the minuscule tilt of your lips. "Cease this," Ysabella warns. "Or I shall jump into your arms."
Your smile dies immediately. "Don’t—"
Clack, clack, clack
The unmistakable sound of approaching hooves calls your attention. A second carriage pulls up to the estate, following the curve of the road. The carriage is green and gold, and when the round door opens, a lady with straight, brown hair and a dress with too many skirts appears at the threshold.
"Ysabella, darling!" Lucia greets as if they hadn't seen each other just a few hours prior. "Why are you waiting outside as if you're one of the help? God's mercy, if your mother saw you now."
Ysabella smiles tightly at the woman only a couple of years her senior. "Aunt Lucia, I'm only enjoying the spring breeze." She courtesies. "How was the journey?"
"Awful," Lucia says immediately, gathering her skirts. She moves to step down but then pauses. Her eyes fly to you, who's standing silently to the side. "Well?" She waves a hand. "Are you slow, perhaps? Help me down."
You glance at Ysabella, who nods imperceptibly before you stoically move forward and offer your arm. Her aunt takes it, stepping down. "Hm," Lucia says, looking you up and down as if she's seeing you for the first time.
You remove your arm, but the noblewoman clings to it, one eyebrow rising on her forehead. "And who might you be?" she asks, her tone completely different from before.
Once again, you look at Ysabella.
"My personal guard," she answers for you, surprising herself by how stern her voice has become.
Her aunt doesn't seem to notice. "Is that so?" She's still clinging to you. Ysabella can't stop looking at the way her fingers wrap around your bicep. "Perhaps my niece may lend you for an afternoon," she says, smiling at you in a way that has Ysabella's stomach churning.
Your face is as blank as a wall. "I am only here to protect, Your Grace."
"Oh, but you'll be protecting me." Lucia battles her eyelashes disgustingly before tugging you forward. "Now, walk me to my chambers."
As you take a hesitant step forward, your gaze locking on hers again, asking for direction, Ysabella ponders if it's worth it to make her move now. Be done with them all, wipe that lecherous smile off her aunt's face.
But she quickly calms the fire burning in her veins. Not yet. She still needs to play the game.
But it doesn't mean she has to play it fairly.
"Ow!" Ysabella trips on a perfectly flat cobblestone, flicking her shoe off her foot. She pretends to stumble, and, as she knew you would, your hands are immediately there, steadying her.
"Are you well?" you ask, brows furrowed.
Ysabella clings to your arms. "I've twisted my ankle," she lies.
And you know she lies because you see her secret smile, hidden from her aunt. Your frown deepens... until, with a sigh, you hoist her up into your arms. "Let's find a physician," you mutter.
And it's petty, but she cannot help it. Looping her arms around your neck as she's carried like a princess, Ysabella smiles at her aunt over your shoulder. "We shall catch up at supper, darling auntie."
Lucia's glare is anything but ladylike.
- - -
You are haggling because, of course, you are.
Lance lounges against a wooden post, bare arms folded over his chest, chewing on a blade of grass. The market is calmer with the approaching dusk, but the surrounding stalls still have customers, none more persistent than his translator.
Lance's lips quirk as he watches you scowl at the seller. The man is tall and burly and has no idea who he's up against. Lance has been many a victim of your persuasion skills, giving you more than he ever planned to.
His heart, for one.
You click your tongue, spin on your heels, and are about to storm away when the seller gives in. That in itself isn't surprising. Lance was counting on it. The problem arose in the way the merchant gave in.
He didn't call after you. Didn't curse and shouted the correct price.
He reached his meaty paw out and grabbed your upper arm.
The blade of grass switches from one side of the bard's mouth to the other. His blue hair brushes against his shoulder as his head instinctually cocks to the side. Grey eyes, shining with amusement, now dim with an emotion he can't name because Lance Silverthread doesn't remember ever feeling it before.
He watches as the merchant coaches you closer. You reach for the cloak, but the man shakes his head and has you turn away. Then, with a gentleness that didn't match the argument you were having but a few moments prior, the man drapes the cloak over your shoulders, straightening the fabric as he gently pats your back and shoulders.
Lance spits out the grass.
★
You turn towards the pole Lance has claimed for himself, wanting to show him your find, but find it empty. Your smile falters as you look around, but you can't find a glimpse of that blue hair of his.
"Where are you?" you mutter to yourself, stepping away from the stall, but a deep voice immediately calls you over.
"I am here, demanding customer," the merchant, Lado, pops up from the counter like a wind-up doll, making you flinch.
You wonder how a man of his size can move so silently. "Hell," you say, then put your game face on. "How much is—"
Lado puts a palm up, silencing you. "We are not ready to discuss prices yet," he declares. "I have thought of a way to ease your frown."
"I'm not frowning," you counter.
Lado points at a mirror. "That is a lie."
You look at yourself and see your brows pulled together. 'Where's Lance?' you think, but what you say is, "That's because you startled me."
Lado ignores you. He picks up a small circular box painted deep purple. With the utmost care, Lado twists the top open to reveal a beautiful, rich, purple pigment.
You lean closer, intrigued.
"A shade for the eyes," Lado says, gesturing to the golden streak he has on his eyelids. "Your gaze is plain, if somewhat intriguing, but with my help, you will elevate it."
He sweeps a dramatic hand over a row of similar boxes. "None shall leave my emporium dissatisfied. Pick a color, prickly client, and I will gift you a sample without charge."
"Do you have a shade of blue?" A voice whispers in your ear.
For the second time, you flinch, but a warm hand loops around your waist to steady you. You look to the side and almost bump your nose against Lance's cheek as he lays his chin on your shoulder.
Lado takes it in stride. "As blue as your hair, mystical sire?"
Lance hums in answer.
"Give me but a moment!"
As the merchant dives for the boxes, Lance steps closer to your back. "I thought you had gone," you tell him, feeling the heat of his body seeping into yours.
Lance looks at you. His eyes are quiet in a way that has you frowning again. "What made you think that?"
"I couldn't see you."
Lance smiles. "Doesn't mean I was far."
Before you can answer, Lado lifts a box in triumphant glory. "Here!" he says, "as deep as your own coloring. Would you have this sample?"
But your bard shakes his head, cheek grazing yours. "I'll take the whole box," he says. "And the cloak my partner is enamored with." He looks at you again. "Anything else caught your eye, moonlight?"
You part your lips, your cheeks suddenly hotter than the dying sun. "Hmm... no."
Lance regards Lado again. "How much do I owe you?"
★
You sit still as a very fine brush tickles your eyelid.
Your right eye is open, already painted, and you watch Lance's face of concentration, moving so carefully as if he's painting royalty.
He's been quiet the whole way back to the base. And now, in his room, the silence is weighing down on you. You tried to pry him open, instinctively knowing something was bothering him, but getting Lance to speak his mind is like trying to squeeze water from a rock.
"Remain still," Lance whispers.
You stop shaking your numb legs. "Sorry."
His eyes flicker down to yours. "I'm almost done," he promises, and, true to his word, with one last sweep of the brush, the bard puts it aside. He leans away to admire his work.
You see him looking from one eye to the other, his face neutral, giving nothing away.
"And?" you press. "Do I look good?"
"See for yourself," Lance says, holding your hand and pulling you up with him. He guides you to the floor-length mirror on the wall, letting go of your hand when you approach it.
You look at yourself, a smile coming unbidden to your lips. You've never worn paint on any part of your body, least of all your face. It's silly, but a part of you likes it. It does bring attention to your eyes.
"What is your verdict, translator?" Lance asks, standing to the side.
Your smile widens. "I like it," you admit. Then, add softer. "We match now."
Finally, Lance gives you a genuine smile. He glides behind, locking eyes through the mirror. "That we do," Lance muses. His blue hair tickles your cheek as he approaches you again, much like he did on the market stall. "Although my gaze can never be quite as intriguing as yours. Painted or not."
You stare at his reflection's eyes. "You heard that."
Lance hums, one hand coming up your arm, fingers barely touching you.
"Is that what's bothering you?" you ask, barely believing it. "A throwaway compliment from a man trying to sell me something?"
Lance doesn't answer. His other hand joins your opposite arm, starting from your shoulders, and slowly, he drags his palms down. Goosebumps rise on the skin where he touches, thumbs gliding along until they crook in the bend of your elbow.
His face is back to that oddly blank expression, which you now realize is Lance's jealous face.
"Lance," you call him.
His eyes face you before lowering, looking down at your body. "Beauty is meant to be admired."
His hands wander lower, drifting past your hips, squeezing the sides of your thighs. You hold your breath when he presses behind you, his hips flush to your backside. "I do not begrudge anyone for admiring you."
His head falls, dropping a soft, lingering kiss on your shoulder. His hands squeeze your thighs, not aggressively, but firmly, before parting ways. One drifts up to your stomach, slipping below your shirt, while the other wanders near the apex of your thigh.
"Lance," you call again, breathless.
He kisses along your shoulder until his soft, mellow lips trail along your neck. "As long as I am the only one who gets to touch."
And touch, he does. Your blue eyeshadow is smeared by the end of it, streaks of it smudged all over both your bodies in the shape of lips and hands and flesh moving against flesh.
Comments
Anathema
💕💕
Anathema
If there's no bread to wipe the leftover broth is it even a dinner? 😔
sunday
I need to frame your writing and hang it in the louvre
Dakota
Lessa is so casual somtimes it frightens me
Sneep
all of these are delightful but ohhhhhhhhh my god LANCE. hes killing me. also killing me is the image of hadrian staring sorrowfully down at his bowl of stew because he wasnt able to get bread with it
Sell
LANCE OMG I DID NOT EXPECT THAT
willow143
LANCE I WAS NOT PREPARED GIVE A LADY A SECOND GOOD LORD
