[princessscience]

Nasuverse Kink Week Day 7: Free Day (Servitude)

Part of @nasuversepromptweeks Nasu Kink Week.

Pairing: Artoria/Mordred (one-sided)

Rating: M

Word count: 687

AO3

The King is cold and inscrutable, even in their fantasies. Mordred decides to change this.

King Arthur is the strongest knight, the perfect king, the legendary red dragon incarnate.

(Distant. Unreachable.)

So Mordred toils, for the sake of this perfect kingdom, the sake of trying to clean away the stain of their imperfect existence amongst these knights. They may not be one for idle daydreaming (not made for such a thing, they hear in Mother’s voice), but fantasising about the day he’ll soon turn and look directly at them makes bearing this helmet, this armour, all worthwhile.

...

This time they imagine kneeling in front of Father on his throne, evening sunlight setting the room alight.

“The rebels have been eliminated, my King.” They were never one for elegant speeches, that task better suited to a knight like Tristan once upon a time; Now, with his having left these halls for good, Mordred dreams of cutting his tongue out for daring to rebuke his King in such a way. Maybe after they've revealed to Father that they know of their true parentage, once the rest of these rebellions have been put to the torch and the blood on their gauntlets has dried.

"Loyal service is worthy of reward, Ser Mordred." Father declares, magnanimous as only a king like him could be, and rises in a great flare of his cloak and flash of sun on his armour; he shines so brightly it’s blinding, and Mordred wants nothing more, has never wanted anything other, than to be sole subject of that light.

He descends the steps slowly, the ringing sound of every step closer making their heart ache, and reaches out to cup Mordred’s chin with his bare hand. Free of Mother’s helmet at last the sensation is overwhelming, the warmth and pressure enough to make their eyes sting and throat burn. 

It’s a dream come true, and a pity that it can only be a dream for now.

“Now,” he continues, “what favour shall you ask for, my knight?”

His knight, his.

“I want to serve you.” they reply immediately, no need to pause to think. “I want to serve you in any way you’ll have me.”

A nod, serious and brief. “Then I shall grant you your wish, Ser Mordred.”

He kneels, clasps a hand on their pauldron to pull their to sprawl on top of him and- no, that’s wrong, they’d rather something different, like- 

-pushing piles of missives and paperwork in Agravain’s precise handwriting away to balance precariously on the edge of the solid desk in Father’s study, barely dressed instead. Better.

The King doesn’t notice the teetering papers, or rather doesn’t care, because how could he not notice; he looks only at Mordred, and so even though their legs cramp they try to spread them an inch wider for him anyway, claw more space on the table back from his duties, and the pleased noise Father makes sends a rush of warmth up their spine. Like the hand cupping their chin before, the warmth of skin against their thighs, their chest, their neck, feels enough to shatter their mind, the sun illuminating Father back then now brought close to brand their skin. Their face, identical to their King in every way, is already a brand enough… but if he did request such a thing from her, Mordred would hardly refuse; his eventual acknowledgement etched upon their skin for all to see.

They know of their own lack of knowledge when it comes to this sort of thing, disinterest in companionship meaning they have never tried to seek it out with only overheard snatches of (doubtlessly exaggerated) tales from fellow knights to fill in the blanks, but they know the feeling of their own hand between their legs well enough, and that’s all they need for this. Yes, they think, as Arthur’s hands draw them closer to the edge, yes, let me help you love you save you have you.

A laugh huffed softly against their neck, a soft murmur of "Good boy", smile audible in Father’s voice, and once again Mordred is undone.

...

Later, when they've finished, Mordred rolls over to gaze at the ceiling; Instead of satisfied, they feel despondent.

When they reveal themself to Father soon, this uneasiness will end.

They're sure of it.

[princessscience]

Nasuverse Femslash Week Day 6: Fake Dating

Part of @nasuversepromptweeks Femslash Week.

Pairing: Artoria/Guinevere

Rating: T

Word count: 483

AO3

It’s late when Guinevere finally hears the door open, the soft creak of leather and rustle of fabric as familiar to her as Artoria’s voice, and also hears it stop abruptly when her husband realizes she’s still awake, curled up and waiting.

“Forgive me, I thought you were already asleep.”

Artoria looks apologetic in the dim light, clearly concerned she’s been woken by the faint disruption - a rather flattering impression of her as such a delicate maiden; instead she’s awake not due to the noise but rather from being unable to sleep in the first place. It is cold this time of year, a bitter chill without someone to warm her, and she can no more stop Artoria from working into the small hours than she could catch the sun and hold back the tide.

If she was a better wife she could wrap her arms around her, whisper sweet nothings in her ear and coax her to bed - if Artoria was a worse king, a better husband, Guinevere might even succeed. But Artoria is the same as she ever was - proud, stubborn, devoted to her kingdom, all the qualities that Guinevere admired her for now coming back to choke her - and so she responds in kind, a dignified Queen during the day, and ignoring the cold absence of her husband at night. 

“You are fine, Arthur,” she says as she rises, straightening and smoothing her clothing for propriety’s sake, “I was having difficulty sleeping, and I am glad to be able to see you before dawn comes.”

Mollified, Artoria moves to change, and she doesn’t look away - it’s impolite, but she still likes watching Artoria undress. Usually a King would have attendants to assist with such heavy armour, another path for people to jockey for power, but her husband can neither risk such a thing nor wants it, and so Guinevere watches as slender fingers make light work of her plate, her outer layers, her boots, old scars earned before she was granted the protection of Avalon exposed for her wife’s eyes only.

Will you have to trouble yourself with this matter for much longer? She almost asks as she moves away from the cold of their empty bed, walks over to her husband, but what would be the point? As one finishes another emerges, an entire kingdom and its neighbors seemingly conspiring to keep Artoria working by candlelight, and Guinevere knows, has known since before she chose to marry her, that Artoria will put her kingdom before her own health, her own happiness, her own wife. She chose this path willingly when she could have stepped away, chose to believe in the young knight she had admired and what that knight stood for - and in moments like this, when Artoria smiles up at her, takes her by the hand and kisses her cheek, she can warm her heart and almost pretend this marriage is real.

Almost.

[princessscience]

Nasuverse Femslash Week Day 1: One Bed / Night

Part of @nasuversepromptweeks Femslash Week.

Rating: T

Word count: 785

AO3

When the pale dawn starts pushing through the windows, when she’s summarily kicked Shirou outside so the two who actually did the hard work in the ritual can get a moment to recover, Rin turns to Saber.

Her face is as calm as ever, hair perfectly rebraided, a doll-like figure in this dilapidated ruin of a house. Rin wishes with not-insubstantial envy that she, heir to a family who must always strive for perfection and composure, could look half as dignified after being thrown into a threesome where the prize was being able to live past tomorrow and the punishment didn’t bear thinking about. She’s sure there’s now a stain on the front of her shirt and knees from the decades-old mattress, but she isn’t going to check in the shattered mirror and risk confirming that. It’s bad enough that her hair is a mess.

She could collapse, curl up, give in to fatigue and rest for a few minutes, but instead she steps forward, choosing to sit next to Saber on the edge of the bed. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but compared to when they’d arrived (one coughing blood, one unable to stand, one nursing the pain of a Servant pulling away at her mana as he bought them all time) it hangs heavy in the air, and Rin wonders how much of it is due to fresh awkwardness and how much is simply Saber trying to conserve as much energy as she can. She hasn’t even laced the ribbon back around her neck, merely finding her skirt and buttoning her shirt up before she'd laid her hands in her lap and closed her eyes.

Part of Rin regrets that this couldn't have been slower, gentler, more romantic somehow.

The other part of her just hadn’t wanted to die.

She leans over to pick the discarded neck ribbon off the mattress by way of an apology - it might be slightly grubby now, but that won’t tarnish her beauty any, and they have bigger problems anyway - and scoots closer, thigh pressed against Saber’s hip. 

“Here, let me.”

Saber starts back, blinking in surprise, but Rin follows.

“R-Rin-”

She carefully loops the blue ribbon under the collar, smooths out any twists, pulls it longer on one side so when tied it will be perfectly even. Ignores the warmth radiating from Saber’s skin, how soft it had felt under her hands-

“Sorry that it was me,” she scowls to a button on the shirt that Kirei once gave her. She had her misgivings about Emiya-kun as a mage. She now also has her misgivings about him as a lover, because if she wasn’t here Saber might never have been able to get off.

Saber just shakes her head, jostling the ribbon in Rin’s hands. She undoes it to start again, nudging Saber’s chin with the back of her hand as a reminder. 

“No, the fault is mine. If I had not been so weak, you would not have had to…”

Saber trails off as she blushes, and of course she’s not only beautiful, famous, well-mannered. She has to be self-sacrificing too.

If Servants follow their Master’s personalities, then of course Shirou would summon someone like that. 

(What does that tell Rin about herself, her own Servant?)

Rin doesn’t let herself think about the theories about summoning and compatibility she studied in the years leading up to this, because the more she dwells on the sheer magnitude of unfairness that is Emiya Shirou summoning a strong, heroic, gorgeous servant like Saber the more she wants to march right outside and fire a Gandr shot at him, and they’ll need all the energy they can today.

She finishes the bow, tugging it taut and even, letting her hands fall away.

“Rin,” Saber says again, now much steadier. Those green eyes that met hers across the street outside the Emiya residence, across the living room table as the three of them sipped tea, Shirou’s blood still wet on his jacket (the same eyes that were gazing down at her, dazed and panicked, barely a few hours ago) are still as intense as ever, pinning Rin in place with her gaze.

The last time Saber had looked at Rin like that, she’d cut Archer down and had a sword to Rin’s throat.

The last time Saber had looked at Rin like that, it had been the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen.

“Hm? What is it?”

“Thank you, Rin.”

The way Saber says her name sounds like a bell, a prayer. How can she not fall for such a thing, the faith that is being placed in her?

Rin pushes herself up, turns. Offers Saber her hand.

“Let’s go, Saber.”

Saber takes it.