ARTIZEA
"THE KING AND QUEEN HAVE DECIDED TO TAKE EXACTLY FOUR DAYS OFF."
The moment those words left Artizea's mouth, the council chamber uproared in debate among the Representatives. They argued over any and everything, from maps to sniper accusations. After some time, the echoes of heated debates faded into silence, leaving the chamber silent once more. Only two ambassadors remained now.
Who would dare cross the line first?
Artizea's hands were braced against the table, glaring daggers at him. "You just cannot help yourself, can you?" she snapped
Rhyssand leaned casually against the edge of the table, his eyes glinting with amusement as he said nothing.
She scoffed, "You are a manipulative…arrogant ass who has no respect for our rules or customs, nor the balance of our realms, admit it."
With every insult, his smile grew another inch wider.
"And you," he interrupted finally, his voice dropping lower, "Might just be the most infuriating woman I have ever met across any realm. A woman who, may I point out, just let her own council walk right over her in the absence of the king—" A flicker of vulnerability crossed her face. "All because of her hatred for me…" he taunted.
"At least we know your vision works perfectly, fine." She snapped her head back toward him.
"Oh, it does," he murmured. "I see everything, the glares, the carefully timed insults."
"It is natural behavior for enemies to have."
"Then why?" he questioned with a smile, slowly crept along his face, "If I were anything but your sworn enemy…Do you radiate with such restless desire, or could that be what excites you so? The idea of?"
Artizea's body froze. Including the crossed legs in question.
"And—" he added smoothly, "I have a very… exceptional sense of smell." His gaze locked with hers. "Quite acute, really."
The words hung in the air for a moment, the heat between them building until it finally snapped. And she hated the fact that he was right. In the end, they crossed the line together. His hands were gripping her waist, pulling her close. Their lips met in a fierce, almost combative kiss, the pent-up tension of the days, weeks, and moons spilling over in an instant. Artizea did not resist. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as their kiss deepened. It was rough, desperate, and neither of them cared about the consequences at that moment. Their breaths came in short gasps as they broke apart briefly, only to come back together with even more urgency. Rhyssand's hands roamed up her swelled breasts. They were a magnificent pair. She flinched, feeling a sharp ache as they contracted harder under his touch, only to gasp within his mouth. When they broke apart, his mouth closed over her peak, cooling them instantly. She melted even more when his other hand lowered, reaching from behind, to slip through the fold of wetness he found, his fingers pressed against her, just enough to tease.
"Princess…" he said softly, his smirk never faltering, and he straightened to bore his gaze into hers. "I have one more secret to share with you."
"What—" she snapped, her breath hitching when he reached out, tilting her chin up with his fingers.
"When you say a god's name," he murmured, "Even if you mumble it in vain, whisper it in the loneliest of nights…It does not matter. They always listen. I always listen." His thumb brushed her lower lip. Slow enough to make her knees beg to give in. "As you may have guessed, all my senses are enhanced tenfold."
Artizea's pulse betrayed her. Damn him.
"For example," he mumbled, leaning just close enough that she could feel the ghost of his lips as they hovered just above hers. "Your brother is nearby."
A sudden knock on the door broke the spell she had not realized she had been under, "Tizea?" Arthur's voice came through.
Artizea's pupils dilated instantly, panic flickering across her face. The faintest chuckle escaped his lips the moment he released her chin. "Seeing that reaction," he whispered, his voice filled with amusement, "Is worth every second in exile."
"Tizea?" Arthur repeated. "Are you in there?"
Artizea panicked and pushed Rhyssand away; he stumbled back slightly in amusement. Her breath came in short gasps. "Uh—one second—!" She managed, while fixing her attire, then landed her petrifying gaze on Rhyssand, shifting between him and her desk. With a mix of both embarrassment and irritation, she gritted out. "Under the desk," she hissed, pointing sharply.
Rhyssand arched a brow, watching her gave him those "I am going to kill you if you' eyes he waswaiting for. With a satisfied smirk, he obliged, lowering himself gracefully upon disappearing beneath the heavy wood of the council table.
Just then, the door creaked open and Arthur stepped in, his usual casual confidence filling the room. "See, I knocked this time," he announced, leaning casually against the doorway. "Mother is asking for help with the masquerade preparations, since our parents are too busy on their second honeymoon," he gagged dramatically.
Artizea adjusted her posture in the chair, trying to appear as composed as possible. "Of course, Arthur. I will handle it," she stressed.
"Oh, and another thing," he wandered closer, holding out two scraps of pearl and frosted fabric in his hand. "Which one do you think is best for the table runners? Too much? Because I swear on mother's roses, if I see one more pastelcolor…" he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, "I will hang myself with it and frame its designer with thirddegree, because how in the six realms am is Arthur Pendragon, supposed to make royal blue look good with butter yellow?!" he raised his hands in dramatic gestures, "Newsflash! You cannot!"
Artizea barely registered his words when she felt hands sliding up her thighs beneath the desk. Her breath caught as his fingers found the delicate lace of her underwear. Her grip on the desk's edge tightened. He wouldn't dare. She asked herself, "It is… fine," she said, her voice slightly strained.
Arthur frowned. "Fine? That is all you have? Fine? I was hoping for something a bit more specific. Because—"
While he rambled on about color schemes and floral arrangements, Rhyssand's hands tugged her forward, his fingers hooking the sides of her underwear. She stiffened, fighting to maintain her composure along with the impossible task of stilling her heartbeat when he used his teeth to pull the fabric down her legs with agonizing slowness. She tried to swish her legs together, but with every feather-light kiss, he pressed closer to her inner thigh. The further they slipped apart, maddeningly slow.
"I am no expert, nor do I claim to be." Arthur continued obliviously. "But I ought to be— (there it is) To think after twenty-five years of royal blue being on the family crest, Yellow should be forbidden!" he exclaimed, resting his chin in his hand, "—I told her, I said 'Mother no one's going to care about the table runners. They will be too busy trying to uncover the secret identities,' but you know how she is…," he cleared his throat, getting to a character, "Everything has to be perfect, Arthur. Imagine two strangers meet, they dance, they laugh, the gold accents on the table remind them of home, they live happily ever after, all because we picked ivory instead of snow pearl!" He blinked. "For all we know, the guests are literally assassins…"
Artizea bit down on her lip, struggling to focus on his words as Rhyssand's kisses grew bolder. "I think… I think you are right," she managed, her voice a pitch higher than normal.
Arthur squinted his eyes in suspicion. "Are you feeling okay? You look pale."
"I am fine—" she snapped, earning a soft laugh from beneath the desk. She panicked, barely managing to cover it with a cough. "Just the heat," she assured. Though the vibration against her skin made her skin bite as though she were still in the northern lands. She slid her hand down; the plan was to find an eyeball and pluck it out, but found herself grasping his hair instead.
As Arthur leaned casually against the chair opposite her, Rhyssand's mouth found its mark, his tongue tracing slow, deliberate patterns. Artizea gasped quietly, feeling an overwhelming sense of pleasure unlike anything she had ever hoped to dream or experienced before. She shot a warning glare at the edge of the table. "Shit," she muttered under her breath, her legs trembling.
"I know, right?" Arthur said with a sigh, shaking his head. "Can you believe that fool suggested regular lilies instead of marigolds? Father would catch a stroke."
What? How did we get to flowers? Artizea thought.
Shifting slightly, her legs moved upward, ankles locking around Rhyssand's neck. Maybe he would go quietly, she squeezed. Slowly. Maybe it would choke him out. Maybe he woulddie by thigh. Would that not be something? But he gripped her tighter in response, pulling her closer. Godsdammit, The fucker was enjoying it. What was worse? It was all her fault. As punishment, A jolt of pressure made her breath slow down. It receded, followed by another sharp insertion, each pulse of it sending her higher, and if that was not enough, A low, satisfied growl vibrated against her core. It was a rhythm of pure harmonic ecstasy.
Until—pop.
Artizea watched as Arthur slowly broke off the stem of a cherry in disgust before munching on it. Where the fuck does he keep getting these cherries?
"—Moral of the story is I told the florist: no marigolds, no deal." He gestured while swallowing. "A heart is a Heart, Tradition is tradition. No matter how old both may be."
Artizea's body was fighting to remain still, as if it could not get any worse. The assault doubled, Rhyssand raised her thigh, to go deeper, forcing her leg to tremble uncontrollably, and then the third came, without warning. She gulped down a whimper. "I… need to get started on Mother's list—" she forced out, hoping to cut the conversation short before she completely unraveled.
Arthur frowned but nodded. "Fine, fine. I shall leave the invoices with you, just do not let Mother take my credit, alright?I have a reputation to uphold. This is a battle, one I will win—Hazah!" Turning to leave, pausing at the door to whirl back. "By the way, you should drink some water or something; you really do look deprived of vitamin D."
Artizea wished to scream for many different reasons. When the door finally closed, she let out a shaky breath, her head falling back against the chair. The reason why emerged from beneath the desk, his eyes gleaming with amusement and satisfaction. Running a hand through his disheveled hair with a smirk playing on his lips that made her instantly regret every choice that had led to this moment.
"What a very charming family you have, Princess," he murmured.
Artizea glared at him. "Get. Out." She shot up only to lose her balance.
Rhyssand's hand caught her wrist mid-motion, the other circling her waist, his grip firm. Still holding her hand, he tilted her chin up with maddening ease. "Ask me nicely…" he said, tone smooth as silk.
Artizea blinked. "What?"
He leaned in, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Us Celestials," he said slowly, "Do not respond quite well to violence, especially when one has done you such a kind gesture." He mused. "I can only think of a kind word that starts with 'P' that might do the trick."
You have got to be kidding me, Artizea thought. She narrowed her eyes. Her free hand shot up to snatch the first one back, but he moved faster, pinning both wrists behind her back in one fluid motion, her breath quickening upon staring into his eyes. She struggled in vain, "I have got a 'P' word for you—" she leaned in, matching his mockery with venom, "Piss off."
He chuckled, not the least bit offended, then finally released her.
Artizea stepped back, rubbing her wrists where his fingers had lingered, "Out. Now." She pointed to the door.
Rhyssand sighed, "As you wish, Your Highness."
Artizea exhaled again, trying to regain her composure.
"But before I do that…" he said suspiciously.
What now? she thought, narrowing her eyes, only to find something red dangling from his finger with ease. Her eyes widened at the sight of her underwear. She looked down nervously, now feeling the cold air creeping upwards. Oh my gods.
"Lesson number one," Rhyssand said, still twirling her undergarment between his fingers with maddening elegance. "If a celestial feels threatened in any form or fashion, we discipline. Some get a slap on the wrist… others? Death." He stepped closer, voice dropping lower. "As for you… I will keep finding new and improved ways to correct your manners every time we meet, until you learn to say… please."
"How dare you speak to me as if I were a child—" she snapped.
"Even a child knows the basics, Artizea." His smile deepened.
Her eyes flared at the nerve of him to call her name, "Fine then—please!"
"Ah, ah…" he tsked. "You see, it has to be genuine. Which you, of all people, should understand—being so devoted to rules and customs, correct?" he smirked, "And let us not forget your favorite…balance," raising the something red, dangling like a trophy.
"Enough!"Her eyes narrowed to slits. "Give it. To me."
"You are free to take it…" he said pleasantly, "If you can reach."
She stepped forward, hand outstretched. Rising to her toes, however, it remained suspended, perfectly balanced on his index finger. He was not even looking at the garments; he was looking at her almost pathetically, while she tried her very best. She tried stretching higher, the tips of her fingers brushing air. Still nothing, she even tried to hop. The godsdamnthing was not moving, not even close.
Rhyssand arched a brow, unfazed. "You will have to try harder than that, princess."
"Ha—bet you've heard that one before," she spat
His tongue clicked. "Depends…" he drawled.
"On—"
"Will you continue to make it a habit to wear thongs to council? Hardly a choice made for comfort—" he grinned, "Though I suspect that was never the goal."
"You're an ass, you know that, don't you?" she gritted out. "An ancient ass—"
"Ancient?" he repeated, almost offended when his free hand went to his chest with a grin, "I ought to be offended. But since you asked…" he sang, "I am a mere Five and Twenty, Princess, and by your human calendar, I stand at my peak." he leaned in slightly, "You would do well to yield now… before you ruin that winning streak you protect oh so fiercely."
"For being at your peak, you sure were weak—" she challenged.
"Have you no idea of what a draw is?" he mused.
"I have an —idea— what it means to have someone on their knees," tilting her chin upward in defiance.
Rhyssand lowered his gaze to level their gaze with that infuriating smile that refused to let go of his lips. "Do you now?" he asked, as if he were inquiring about something…unholy.
Artizea's fists clenched at her sides, then she did the sensible thing and stepped away from him, barely restraining a strangled noise, halfway between a scream and a groan. She then inhaled through her nose, nostrils flaring, fists clenched. 1,2,3, so no one bleeds. Slowly, she turned back around. He stood there, arms crossed. An idea flickered behind her eyes. She began to slowly pace back to him, pressing a hand to his chest, gently pushing him backward until they met the edge of the table. The space between them was humming. Artizea tilted her head slightly. "Please," she said softly. "Kind enough for you?" However, she did not let him respond; her hand dipped swiftly toward the dagger she always kept in her boot, only to find it empty.
Click.
Artizea's eyes grew wide at the sound of metal landing softly on the counter beside him. When had he—? Ah. She flinched at the memory of this exact moment. Her gaze wavered between him and the dagger.
"My, my, do I have my work cut out for me…" Rhyssand chuckled, "Now that we know what not to do, allow me to tell you what you should—"
"Fuck…" she hissed. "You."
"Very good," He murmured against her jaw, grinning. "We shall revise this in the near future. Needs more feeling," His grin deepened while he stepped across from her. "In the meantime, maybe try practicing in the mirror," he glanced over his shoulder, "on your knees,"
Artizea's jaw dropped. Then flung to snatch up the blade. "You—!"
But before steel met flesh, light folded in on itself, and he was gone, vanishing along with her dignity. "Bastard!" Her voice rose, looking up toward the ceiling.
Silence answered her. Infuriating silence.
"Your highness?"
Artizea spun around to find her mother's knightguard standing stiffly in the doorway, eyes wide with alarm behind the helmet. She opened her mouth to respond, then stopped. What was she even supposed to say? Instead, she let out a guttural growl of frustration and stormed past.
The knightguard blinked after her, then scanned the room, and wisely concluded the findings were way above pay grade.