Diagnosed with Longing-itis
He simply missed his wife.
(Ruth Serbel/Reader) | Also on AO3
It is rare for the Remdragons’ council room to feel so… pathetic.
Sullen and grievous it was, when the Knights returned after comrades were lost. Often it was suffocating, when strategies did not align, resources could not permit, and men refused to yield.
Gabel thinks this is the first time to see two of their rather decorated figures in the group look disoriented. The Lord Calypse lacked the frown that etched so deep in his face, it could incinerate through his skin. In other words, he did not seem as terrifying today. Would the best way to put it be… lackadaisical? Bored?
His head turns slowly to the figure at the Lord’s right. Their archmage—in this rare, miraculous glory–did not bring any tomes to excite himself amidst “boring council talk” and is, in fact, begrudgingly piercing a fork through a warm grilled potato.
And Riftan prohibited eating in the council room.
Gabel feels Hebaron elbow him lightly, yet the charmer continues to gape at the sight.
“He looks like a child who was forced to eat a meal,” Hebaron whispers to him.
“He never eats to begin with, especially something that you have to pick apart,” Gabel’s eyes do not leave the pair in front of him, out of disbelief, and grits his words to his colleague. “Did the Seven Kingdoms somehow turn on itself overnight?”
Gabel recounts the past few days: they won a recent raid without injuries, the Commander had decided to give incentive to the Knights in the form of coin, and they had recently secured funding to open another port.
Why the gloom?
“You rakes don’t seem to understand, since you have your hands full with women,” Elliot sighs behind them patronizingly, and his tone transforms to one of kindness, “The Lord and the archmage are preoccupied with their own.”
Oh. Ohhh.
Right—Gabel forgot to account for the fact that their other sorceress had accompanied the Lady Calypse for a four-day stay in Osirya, much to the chagrin of the two men.
Except the entire trip from arrival to return takes three weeks, and they are expected to return in seven days still.
“And well, you know how mages and the Church are,” Elliot scratches his head, “They’re not supposed to get along, but somehow Kuahel Leon happens to have been close to both women at some point in their lives. In fact, he had stayed close with our sorceress. In a decent way, of course, but still…”
Oh. Ohhhh.
“They’re wife-deprived.” Gabel concludes, snapping his fingers, “And dying from jealousy.”
“As an additional diagnosis, I think they suffer from neglect and longing,” Hebaron whistles softly.
This entire conversation still has not reached the attention of its subjects. That’s how terrible the case is. Gabel only prays that remedy comes soon.
“That’s something I’d expect from the Commander,” Gabel shakes his head, gawking at Ruth, “But the archmage?”
“I would like to think any person would be felled by longing, if one likes the other enough,” Elliot clears his throat. “Since you two are so used to warming only beds rather than commitments, I would not expect you to understand.”
BANG!
The council room’s doors slam open, revealing a scribe accompanying the Lady’s short expedition, before Gabel could ask Elliot if he intends to be a cleric sworn to celibacy.
A whistle rings out from the Castle, and an obnoxiously loud voice echoes from the gates.
“We have returned!”
Ruth’s head snaps towards the window, potato clearly forgotten.
Riftan looks to the messenger, frown etching his face, wordlessly urging the poor guy to speak.
There it is, Gabel sighs inwardly.
“Y-Yes, as the mage had announced, Her Ladyship’s party has returned. The trip had been cut short due to some logistical issues in the host’s venue. Everyone is back safe.”
As if the words had summoned the women, bootsteps echo from the hallway. Two distinct gaits sound closer and closer to the council room—
“Not your coachman, no,” you enter, announcing to no one in particular, “He got piss-drunk and I had to drive the carriage, can you imagine that–?!”
A sturdy figure has flashed behind you in a few strides, right beside the Lady Calypse. Your sharply sweet smile stays plastered on your face, because this was nothing new for a welcome party.
“Must you truly speak before Your Ladyship can get a word out?” Riftan gruffly grumbles behind you, already holding Maximillian to him.
“She… had been very—” She seems to struggle against her husband’s grip, “—helpful—we wouldn’t have arrived… if she didn’t know how… to man the carriage.”
“Oh, my Lord, you let her finish speaking, have you somehow developed more respect, while we were away?” You ask Riftan humorously, if only because you know the comment will fly above his head from how eager he is to see his wife.
He doesn’t even verbally adjourn the council meeting, and Maximillian doesn’t seem to mind being whisked away to their bedchambers, either.
Nonetheless, your quip earns laughter from the company left behind you.
“Gentlemen,” you incline your head politely, stealing a glance at Ruth, who has somehow decided it was a convenient time to look at the maps at the helm of the table. “I hope none has replaced my charm, wit, and free-of-charge comedy.”
“Ah, yes,” Gabel remains seated, as you step closer to the table, “The Knights have missed your commentary, and the convenience of having your magic around.”
You look at Ruth flatly again, and he has not met your eyes, since you have entered the room. Though, you know, he was getting his fill, while you weren’t looking.
“I was so missed by the Knights,” you place a hand over your forehead and shut your eyes, feigning swoon, “Is it not appropriate that only the Lady of the House got a welcome from her husband? Does mine not suffer without my lovely presence? Does he not ache for my touch and caress—!”
Warmth engulfs you, and you feel small against the large hands that seem to trap your waist. To give mercy to your poor heart, you open one eye to find Ruth looking down at you.
“Are you finished?” His breath ghosts above beside your ear—low and gravelly enough to slowly ignite the heat within you.
And also… This was a rather obscene position, with the rest of the invited Knights still watching.
“I—Here?!” Your face flushes indignantly, and that must be why he is smirking at you, as he leans closer.
“I asked you a question,” he murmurs low, as his cheek brushes the top of your head now, and you shudder as you feel him take a deep breath, as if taking you in. “And don’t complain. You started your own performance.”
You look above Ruth’s shoulder, bidding the Knights farewell, since they have, respectfully, decided to leave through the door.
“Very well, men, I think I must go, with my husband so eager to fan the flames of desir—mrmh!” Ruth’s hand clamps over your mouth with a sigh.
“Oh, trust us,” Gabel calls behind him, after he passes the pair of you. “He looked like a dead man walking the entire two weeks. He needs some revival.”
“Have a good recovery!” Hebaron’s voice echoes from the hall, sounding farther away from you.
Huh?
“Recovery?” You mutter to yourself and you huff, as Ruth suddenly slumps on your shoulder.
“Don’t mind them.”
Wind—his—slam the doors shut again with a lazy flicker of his hand, and he resumes his stay at the crook of your neck.
“What are you doing…?” You ask him suspiciously, but you can’t help but moan softly beside his ear, when he begins to trail open-mouthed kisses from the line of your jaw to your throat. His name lilts from your lips, “Oh, Ruth…”
“Fanning the flames of desire,” he sneaks a nip and relieves the pain by running his tongue over the smooth skin of your throat, “As my wife had insisted.”
Your eyes fly open, remembering your station. “In the Lord’s council room?!”
His grip on your waist only tightens, and you let out a sigh of pleasure as he pulls you even closer, and somehow, it is still not close enough.
“For a while,” he clarifies, pulling away from your neck to look at you properly. His gaze moves from your cloaked figure, to the marks he planted on your décolletage, your glassy eyes, and to the slightly-parted lips that, he believes, aren’t still swollen enough.
Fuck.
“I missed you…” He leans his forehead against yours, and you chuckle softly. Even if you two are alone, you soften your voice, afraid any sound may disturb your shared bliss.
“Please, do not look at me like that, in case you want to stay married to a puddle,” you tell him, looking away from him, as his eyes take in your flushed form. Your heart beats even faster, as you hear him laugh. Even the sound is handsome—and, gods, does he look better and better every day.
You decide to lean closer and give him an affectionate peck, and he groans helplessly at the contact. His palm affectionately cradles the back of your neck, helping you tilt your head back so he could get more, more, more.
He pulls away with a wounded, frustrated sound, “God, you feel good—” and his lips capture yours again swiftly, suckling on your lower lip—the sound makes you flush even more.
“—And you taste fucking good…” Ruth is panting, by the time he pulls away. He begins to press tender kisses to your cheeks, the gesture soft and endearing despite the mindless whimper he lets out, before pleading: “Want to make you feel good…”
You think you are the luckiest woman in the world, and there is nothing that makes you ache as much as how he looks at you like he wants to devour you.
And, heavens help you, you would let him. Over and over.
