Work Text:
The candle had burned down to a stub, its wax pooling in uneven ridges along the brass holder. Outside, the wind rattled the fine oak shutters--a sound like teeth chattering in the cold.
Edward's small fingers traced the edge of the miniature portrait, late hither come from the French court, mark ye, the oils slightly raised where the artist had layered them thickest. Elisabeth of Valois's round face was no bigger than his thumb, but her eyes, painted dark and knowing, seemed to follow him as he shifted on the bed. The gold filigree frame pressed into his palm, leaving tiny half-moon indents in his fair-colored skin.
The fair king of twelve years, with face most long, and locks of gold and reddish hue exhaled sharply through his nose, his free hand fumbling beneath the quilt. The wool scratched against his thighs, rough compared to the imagined silk of the French princesses’ gown—the one she wore in the portrait, low-cut and clinging just enough to hint at what lay beneath. His breathing hitched as he pictured her fingers, delicate but purposeful, untying the laces herself.
Down the hall of the royal apartments, a door slammed. The dark blue-eyed youth froze, his pulse hammering in his throat. The servants knew better not to disturb him at this hour, but the sound coiled tightly in his gut anyway. He did command his most trusty pages to slumber just beyond the portal this night. Trepidation high, he waited, listening to the muffled footsteps retreating down the corridor. When silence settled again, he let out a shaky laugh and adjusted his grip on the portrait.
Wetting his lips, Edward’s thumb brushed Elisabeth's painted lips—parted slightly, as if she'd been caught mid-breath. He wondered if she'd make that same expression beneath him, if her fingers would dig into his shoulders like he imagined. The fantasy sharpened: her scent of rosemary and sweat, the hitch of her voice whispering his name in accented French. His hips jerked involuntarily, the friction beneath the nightshirt almost too much.
A log shifted in the fireplace, sending up a shower of sparks. The sudden heat matched the flush creeping up his neck. Edward bit his lip to stifle a groan, the portrait now clutched tight enough to bend the frame. The thought of her finding him like this—her knowing smirk, the way she might tilt her head—sent a jolt through him. His stomach was clenched as if a pike had thrust him through and turned within his bowels deep.
The Cloth of Gold quilt slipped to the floor as he arched off the bed, the cold air sharp against his exposed skin. Elisabeth’s painted dark-brown eyes bored into him, dark with something like approval. He imagined her straddling his hips, her weight pressing him into the mattress, her nails scraping down his chest. His breath came in ragged bursts now, each exhale fogging the miniature’s surface.
A bead of sweat rolled down the king’s temple, tracing the line of his jaw before dripping onto the pillow. The scent of beeswax and his own vibrant arousal thickened the air. His fingers moved faster, rougher—no finesse, just hunger to glut his boyish appetites. The portrait’s frame bit into his palm, a sting that only fed the fire coiling low in his belly.
The fantasy twisted darker: Elisabeth’s enrapturing laugh, low and mocking, as she watched him unravel. "Is this the sum to fell a crowned king?" her painted lips seemed to say. His hips stuttered, the muscles in his thighs trembling. The quilt tangled around his ankles, trapping him like the weight of his own title--his duties, his damned political trials and sittings with the most Honorable Privy Council looming just weeks away.
Grimacing, Edward’s grip on the portrait slipped, the frame clattering against his chest. The sudden noise jolted through him, sharp as a slap. For a heartbeat, he feared someone had heard—until his corpulent body seized, pleasure cresting in a wave that left him gasping. The miniature tumbled onto the rumpled sheets; her face now smeared with his warm release.
Grinning like a witless mooncalf, Edward collapsed back against the pillows, his pulse still throbbing in his ears. The fire had dwindled to embers, casting long shadows across the bedchamber. He stared at the darkened ceiling; the afterimage of Elisabeth’s smirk burned behind his eyelids. Shame prickled at the edges of his satisfaction. What if HIS very grooms, Heaven forfend the entire court had seen? What if they already knew?