You Can Leave Your Hat On, PG
Feb 9, 2015 21:13:42 GMT 10
Kypriotha, housewife, and 1 more like this
Post by wordy on Feb 9, 2015 21:13:42 GMT 10
Title: You Can Leave Your Hat On
Rating: PG
Word Count: 616
Summary (and any Warnings): The missing scene from canon.
Notes/Links: For housewife, courtesy of her prompt.
As the door closed behind her, Buri let out a breath that she had been holding in all night. Raoul had not been exaggerating about his family. Though both of them had been tight-lipped about the exact nature of their relationship, the knowing looks and teasing questions had been annoying to deal with.
And there were more festivities tomorrow. She groaned.
“Don’t die on me just yet,” Raoul said. There was amusement beneath the exhaustion in his voice. He closed the door that connected their rooms and walked over to her, some dark material draped over his arm.
“If that’s a new dress, you can damn well keep it,” she said. “I can barely get myself in and out of this one.”
He grinned. “Well, if you hadn’t spent the evening stuffing your face with everything that looked vaguely edible…”
“If I’m ‘stuffing my face’ as you so kindly put it, I don’t have to answer stupid questions from your family,” she said, hitting him on the arm.
“Fair enough,” he said, flinching. “And it’s not a dress—it’s a kilt.”
“A kilt.”
Seeing that the word was unfamiliar to her, he shook out the material and held it up for her to see. Before, it had looked black, but now she saw that it was a very dark green.
“It’s sort of a Goldenlake tradition,” Raoul was explaining, “and my aunt keeps leaving it in my room as if its mere presence will force me to wear it—“
Buri raised an eyebrow. “You were going to wear that tonight?”
“No,” he said. “I have no intention of wearing it.”
“Huh.”
Raoul eyed her with suspicion. “What?”
She shrugged, hardly knowing how to explain it herself. The idea of seeing him wear it was strangely…appealing. “I’ve never seen a man in a kilt before,” she said.
“Don’t try and guilt me,” he said, pointing his finger at her, the kilt still in his hands.
Buri looked at him pleadingly.
Whether it was due to the exhausting evening or their unwavering friendship—she had agreed to play the lady for Raoul’s monstrous family, after all—his resolve was clearly starting to fray. She closed the space between them slowly, her pleading expression shifting into a grin.
“Come on,” she said. “What are you, scared?”
He looked down his nose at her; it was surprisingly effective in conveying his scorn. It was easy to forget that he was so much taller than she was, what with his stocky build and boyish sense of humour.
After a moment, Raoul sighed. He tossed the kilt at her and she was briefly distracted by the heavy material whomping her in the face. Pulling it off and folding it over her arm, her sharp rebuke just about died on her lips as she saw him untying the cord of his breeches.
Raising his head, hands still working at getting himself undone, Raoul smirked. “What,” he said. “Scared?”
“You think mighty highly of yourself,” she answered, but there was a burning heat in her cheeks. As if she were some sweet maid about to have her first roll in the hay. The thought was ridiculous, just like the warmth that was spreading through her belly—this was Raoul.
But his eyes never left hers, as if daring her to break first, and it was suddenly impossible to draw her gaze away from him. Wildfire was racing through her veins.
Now he was kicking off his breeches. She still couldn’t look away; his eyes seemed to burn with a dark fire.
He held out a hand, and when he spoke, his voice was rough and low, sending a shiver down her spine. “Kilt.”
Rating: PG
Word Count: 616
Summary (and any Warnings): The missing scene from canon.
Notes/Links: For housewife, courtesy of her prompt.
As the door closed behind her, Buri let out a breath that she had been holding in all night. Raoul had not been exaggerating about his family. Though both of them had been tight-lipped about the exact nature of their relationship, the knowing looks and teasing questions had been annoying to deal with.
And there were more festivities tomorrow. She groaned.
“Don’t die on me just yet,” Raoul said. There was amusement beneath the exhaustion in his voice. He closed the door that connected their rooms and walked over to her, some dark material draped over his arm.
“If that’s a new dress, you can damn well keep it,” she said. “I can barely get myself in and out of this one.”
He grinned. “Well, if you hadn’t spent the evening stuffing your face with everything that looked vaguely edible…”
“If I’m ‘stuffing my face’ as you so kindly put it, I don’t have to answer stupid questions from your family,” she said, hitting him on the arm.
“Fair enough,” he said, flinching. “And it’s not a dress—it’s a kilt.”
“A kilt.”
Seeing that the word was unfamiliar to her, he shook out the material and held it up for her to see. Before, it had looked black, but now she saw that it was a very dark green.
“It’s sort of a Goldenlake tradition,” Raoul was explaining, “and my aunt keeps leaving it in my room as if its mere presence will force me to wear it—“
Buri raised an eyebrow. “You were going to wear that tonight?”
“No,” he said. “I have no intention of wearing it.”
“Huh.”
Raoul eyed her with suspicion. “What?”
She shrugged, hardly knowing how to explain it herself. The idea of seeing him wear it was strangely…appealing. “I’ve never seen a man in a kilt before,” she said.
“Don’t try and guilt me,” he said, pointing his finger at her, the kilt still in his hands.
Buri looked at him pleadingly.
Whether it was due to the exhausting evening or their unwavering friendship—she had agreed to play the lady for Raoul’s monstrous family, after all—his resolve was clearly starting to fray. She closed the space between them slowly, her pleading expression shifting into a grin.
“Come on,” she said. “What are you, scared?”
He looked down his nose at her; it was surprisingly effective in conveying his scorn. It was easy to forget that he was so much taller than she was, what with his stocky build and boyish sense of humour.
After a moment, Raoul sighed. He tossed the kilt at her and she was briefly distracted by the heavy material whomping her in the face. Pulling it off and folding it over her arm, her sharp rebuke just about died on her lips as she saw him untying the cord of his breeches.
Raising his head, hands still working at getting himself undone, Raoul smirked. “What,” he said. “Scared?”
“You think mighty highly of yourself,” she answered, but there was a burning heat in her cheeks. As if she were some sweet maid about to have her first roll in the hay. The thought was ridiculous, just like the warmth that was spreading through her belly—this was Raoul.
But his eyes never left hers, as if daring her to break first, and it was suddenly impossible to draw her gaze away from him. Wildfire was racing through her veins.
Now he was kicking off his breeches. She still couldn’t look away; his eyes seemed to burn with a dark fire.
He held out a hand, and when he spoke, his voice was rough and low, sending a shiver down her spine. “Kilt.”