wait it’s only just now fully hit me that howl’s moving castle takes place over two months
after two months of knowing each other howl and sophie were IN LOVE and COMMITTED
at the beginning of the book howl theoretically had TWO MONTHS TO LIVE before the witch got him! and his plan was like, FUCK ALL. he didn’t know what he was doing, he didn’t even know the terms of the curse.
howl didn’t have a plan to get out of his contract either. sophie waltzed into the castle and calcifer took one look at her and was like “oh man thank goodness this woman showed up and can CONVENIENTLY talk life into things, she’s gonna get us out of this contract”
this made me laugh so hard bc you’re RIGHT, Howl’s only demonstrable plan re: his impending doom is getting really drunk with the rugby club and then going BACK TO INGARY and letting the curse hit him.
I do think it’s really interesting that he invites all of Sophie’s family over the day the curse is supposed to hit. He saysit’s to keep her out of trouble, which is probably part of it, but Howl seems like one for multi-layered plans (see: taking Sophie to Mrs. Pentstemmon’s to prep her for her visit to the king but also to see if Mrs. Pentstemmon could unspell her).
Who ends up at the moving castle due to Howl’s invitations? Sophie and Michael, Martha, Lettie, Fanny and Mrs. Fairfax. This includes every living magic user that we know of in Ingary. (Fanny and Martha don’t do magic, but they’re also the two that Howl wouldn’t have met, and for all he knew they were powerful sorceresses too, or at the very least hardheaded like Sophie.) So Howl may not have had much of a plan for evadingthe curse, but he arranged things so that once the witch got him, his loved ones would be at the castle, surrounded by every magician he could gather, and incidentally in the best possible position to launch a rescue operation.
i would also like to add that if things had gone askew for Howl, Sophie’s entire contention network would have been there for her, if she was to mourn for him
i’m DYING over the idea of howl, possibly doomed, probably enamored, and definitely wallowing in self-pity, being like “at least now she’ll have GUESTS for the PARTY that she’s going to throw when i’m DEAD” because howl loves imagining himself as a unappreciated martyr
A departure from expected content! 1x08 angsting will resume presently, fear not. For now: have this. Shoutout to both @ladyofrosefireand@bloodofthelioness for giving me betas/thoughts on this/actually make it A Thing for y’all.
Title:Ceremony
Warning:Explicit. This be spicy. Also mentions of past blood/show-typical violence.
Summary: Post 1x04, angst, hurt/comfort, spice. Sometimes your platonic soulmate nearly dies, and then you nearly die, in the space of like three days, and that’s just A Lot, and you need some good old-fashioned ‘you nearly died, and I need to reassure myself you’re alive’ sex. Still platonic/on a qpr level for them, the sex is but a vessel for Emotions. Alternating POV.
Teaser:‘With the synchronicity of battle, they inhale, a tension pulling their bodies apart, just so. In that brief space of suspended time and distance, they take the chance to bare each other. Then as they exhale, their bodies meet again, skin to skin. The sudden bright feeling of it is almost scalding, after the indifferent barrier of their clothing, but she wraps her arms around him at once, gathering him to her, drawing him as close as she can while they remain within their own bodies.
Hair rises along his arms in response to the sudden chill of the empty air around them. She does not flinch from it. She closes her eyes, and embraces saidar, and lets him feel it, too. One hand drags its way up and down his spine. A smooth and steady glide downwards, a swift, sparking pull up. With that motion she weaves her power, and channels the fire to blaze with heat for him. His body melts into her in answer.‘
Moiraine rarely, if ever, gives him commands. It is not how their partnership works. But when she looks at him in the cavern, as he shakily gets to his feet, the other sisters having safely contained Logain, he knows that she is not asking. Nor does she wait for a response before she turns and strides back out into the camp like she’s marching into battle.
Outwardly, she is as composed as ever. Within him, however, their bond burns.
Lan follows, equally wordless, and falls into step beside her.
The tension in him, the rising pull of desire he feels, the swelling, building need inside meets hers with the force of two tidal waves crashing together. And all that keeps them apart is twenty years of cultivated discipline and strength of will.
That falls away the second they gain the privacy of their own tent. For the world she must be Moiraine Sedai. And Moiraine Sedai is a cool, calculating near-deity in the eyes of so many. She needs someone in whose eyes she will always be a woman. A creature of flesh, and blood, and feeling, who sometimes needs to be held close, fingers running gently through her hair, and held together as the cracks begin to show.
Like a pair of arrows drawn back by the taut string of a bow, stressing, straining, they finally loosed themselves, with the world held back behind thin strips of green canvas. Shielded from the burden of their duty, and the pressure of the expectation of everyone else, they are allowed to briefly be human with one another. Lan barely has a second to set down his sword, still bloodied, before Moiraine is there. Her body is hard and solid against him; as carefully sculpted for war as his own. Her embrace is a fierce thing, as she pulls him into her arms, and holds him there. He closes his eyes, his body instinctively shifting to accommodate hers, knowing what she will seek from him. Their bodies flush. Her arms around his chest. Hands clasped at the back of his neck. Fingers grazing his hair. Head tucked gently against his neck.
Trembling, she presses her body to his. Her breath comes in short bursts against his throat, as though she’d just run for miles, tearing the world aside as she went to reach him. Part of it is from the effort she expended to Gentle Logain. He still feels that in her. The lingering effects of it. And the lingering effects of the anger that had partially driven her to it. Anger for him. For what she might have lost. For what she could not save. Most of it is the overwhelming emotion within her. Emotions that she’s struggling, and failing, to contain, as she clings to him in the stifling darkness.
With all the burdens placed upon her, all the burdens she has placed upon herself, she handles the weight of them well. But it is such a fragile, precarious balance, he knows. To have so much contained within a single person. Sometimes it becomes too much, even for her. Madness tugs at the edges of her fraying sanity, ever begging her to succumb to the pressure of it all. He feels it now, hears it whisper to her, and knows what he must do. As she breaks like a wave against him, seeming small for all her strength, he puts his arms around her, and holds her firmly to him. Her body melts into him, as the embrace gives her permission for that strength to fail. In his arms she is simultaneously less than perfect, and divine. Given the ability to be scared, and weak, and insecure before him. While in his eyes she will never be anything less than everything.
Her body shakes more violently now, for him, than it ever did with the fever that tried to kill her. His fingers find that knot of tension between her shoulders that always causes her problems, and starts to rub, and soothe. Grounding her with the motions, he does not stop until he coaxes a faint hum of peace from her, and feels her trembling ease slightly.
Slowly, carefully, noting through their bond how sensitive she feels, as though her skin has been electrified by a recent storm, he brings his hand down to her waist. He has his own fears to face, after what happened in the cavern. A deft finger brushes the hole torn in her shirt. The skin beneath is smooth and unmarked but he can still feel the pain of the wound that was there. His heart clenches, in time with the thud of the axe haft punching through her gut in his mind. A scene he does not think he will cease replaying until death takes him.
As he lay thrashing in the sand in an ever-growing pool of his own blood. Choking. Drowning. Dying. He felt her. He felt her agony. And tried to reach her, still. Even as she tried to reach him.
Had they died, their corpses would have lain together, their hands outstretched, fingers so near to touching.
***
The bond darkens, as she feels Lan’s fingers clench against her hip, and pain and fear swell within him, as though he has siphoned them from her, only to suffer from them himself. Moiraine reaches down and takes his hand, twining their fingers together like a weave. Her grip is so strong she fears it might bruise, and starts to slacken. But he seizes that instinct, and halts it, gripping back with the same fierce defiance she had met him with.
He doesn’t speak. Nor does she.
They share everything. The bond swells between them like a sea in storm. There is too much in them both to be contained in a single thread. So they weave more with the strength of their emotion. Joining, like tiny rivers that come together at an ocean, bringing the flood of all that he is, and all that he feels for her.
She gasps, and he goes still for a moment as they adjust. It’s like the feeling she has when she first takes him inside her, the welcome stretch, treading close to pain, but overwhelmed by pleasure. Yet this is more. So much more. Not just his body, but his heart, his very soul, shared with her, entrusted to her. Only to her.
Simultaneously, their hands move beneath clothes, pulling them free, pushing them away. Their eyes remain closed, but it doesn’t matter. They’ve done this so many times, so many ways, they could do it blind, and deaf, and senseless. The shaking of their hands adds only a second to this ancient ritual they both know in their bones as well as their hearts.
With the synchronicity of battle, they inhale, a tension pulling their bodies apart, just so. In that brief space of suspended time and distance, they take the chance to bare each other. Then as they exhale, their bodies meet again, skin to skin. The sudden bright feeling of it is almost scalding, after the indifferent barrier of their clothing, but she wraps her arms around him at once, gathering him to her, drawing him as close as she can while they remain within their own bodies.
Hair rises along his arms in response to the sudden chill of the empty air around them. She does not flinch from it. She closes her eyes, and embraces saidar, and lets him feel it, too. One hand drags its way up and down his spine. A smooth and steady glide downwards, a swift, sparking pull up. With that motion she weaves her power, and channels the fire to blaze with heat for him. His body melts into her in answer.
Trousers and undergarments follow all at once. Pushed down by fumbling hands, and even graceless feet, anything to stop them being drawn apart from each other. She can feel, in bond and in her body, as his breathing grows heavier, faster. Her heart pounds anticipation’s pulsing beat against her ribs so hard she knows it beats against him, too. Her skin, flushed and sensitive, seems to ripple like a disturbed pond with each brush of him against her.
Entirely naked before him, she at last feels safe. Only with him could she be so vulnerable, and her instinct responds to that knowledge, curling up quiet inside her, like a hound before a hearth. All of her knows that to be so exposed, he is there, and she sinks into the comfort of that like a warm bath, lets it rise up over her head, lets it drown her so gently in him.
It tastes like agony, to part from him, even a little, just enough to let a whisper of air pass between them. But her reward is the sight of him before her. Whole and unharmed. There is no scar to mark where the wound that nearly took his life had torn his skin. Not even a spatter of blood like casually tossed paint across the canvas of his skin. The sole proof it didn’t exist only in her imagination is the pain that she remembers in their bond. The pain, and the terror she had known as he began to slip away.
Shaking, unable to control it, she reaches out with both hands and presses them to his throat. The skin is smooth and unmarred. His pulse beats strong beneath her gentle touch. The eyes that find hers in the dim light are soft, and understanding. His hand rests gently on her side, where she had been stabbed in the explosion, and finds it similarly, miraculously, unharmed.
Bidden by something deeper than conscious awareness, her hands begin seeking him. For what she does not know. For anything, anything that might try to take him from her again. She needs to touch him, to feel him, to run her hands over every inch of his body and assure herself that he is still here, still with her. With her movements, she channels, pulling weaves from the ether to guide her fears, Delving into him, assuring her that he is safe, and whole, and unharmed.
***
Moiraine’s fear is palpable. Like a summer storm, darkening the skies, and whipping through the unsuspecting trees without warning.
His instinct on feeling it is to lift her into his arms, to walk with her to the bed, to lay her down onto it, and make love to her until she can no longer even remember what her fear felt like. Until she is shaking only from the pleasure that he has given her. Until all she knows is his warmth, and his light, and his love for her. But as his body starts to shift to do just that, the bond seems to envelope him, wrapping him up and stilling him, begging him with silence to stay in place. Just for a moment. Just for now.
He complies without question, and she pulls him in tighter. Closer than before. He is so aware of her body that it almost physically hurts. The heat of her skin, bare against his, makes the flames she channeled for them feel like Winter snow in the mountains. Every curve and line of her body fits so well with his, as though a sculptor moulded the two of them from a single piece of clay. Her breasts press into him. Nipples hardening for him, despite the heat. Lust begins to rise within him, firing through his blood like battle fever. And as she raises her head to meet his eyes, he knows that she feels it too, and knows that what she’s doing to him with the shift of her body against his is entirely deliberate.
***
Her need for Lan feels like embracing the One Power. It thrums inside her, a riotous rush of energy and feeling, begging to be used. And she takes it, she takes it all, and closes her eyes as she sinks into it and feels. Her body has been thrown back into a fever that is boiling over within her. It is going to tear through her, to burn her up. Her baser instincts clash within, as fear gives way to hunger, and hunger blazes up into need, as she turns to him, and meets his eyes, and finds the same fire kindling in him.
He strokes his fingers through her hair, and does not flinch as her nails bite into his skin while she clings to him. She needs him closer. She needs him in her. She needs more. As she raises her head at last, he lifts a hand, and meets her, cradling her cheek. His thumb strokes gently, up and down, the calluses there scraping her soft skin. It feels exquisite. Like he’s scraping away a layer of ash and restraint and revealing her true self beneath.
They move together, like a pair in a dance with music only they can hear, their bodies flowing with perfect symmetry, so they do not part for even a moment. She steps back, and he follows, as he always does, as he always will. Her eyes do not leave his as they turn in place, so that he can sit on the bed and draw her down into his lap. Her body flows like water over and around him, molding against him the moment she’s able, her face pressed against his neck once more, but this time it is with hunger, not fear. She nips lightly against the skin with her teeth until he gasps. Then sucks it between her lips to soothe in turn. Her kisses form a ring around his neck, pleasured bruises tracing the path of the blade that had sliced through him, replacing it with her marks instead.
Her hips rock against him in slow, pulsing rolls, like a wave claiming a shore, so gently it doesn’t realise what’s happened until they’re one. It’s been some time since they’ve done this, but her body knows what she needs. It responds to him, the heat of him, the slow drag of her centre against his thigh, which he shifts deftly to alter her angle. She feels him harden against her as she moves, and it sends a light thrill of pleasure sparking through her core. She feels his need through the bond, of course, but this visceral, physical reminder of how much he wants her makes her tremble.
The growing wetness between her legs heightens her awareness of where his hands are. One at the base of her spine, tilting her hips towards him, the other at her back, steadying her. Neither where she needs them. She does not say a word to him, still. He is already moving when she catches one of his wrists between two fingers. He meets her eyes as she guides him, and let’s her slip his hand between her thighs, legs shifting open for him. He gives a soft hiss at the first stroke of his deft fingers between her folds. His pupils widen at the same time she feels a deep thrum of lust from him through their bond. Her physical responses having a similar effect on him as his had upon her.
***
Lan shifts, still holding Moiraine against him, but nudging her to raise her head slightly, giving him access to her throat, so his lips can trail across her neck and kiss against the point where her pulse thumps against the press of his tongue. The sensation brings him as much security as it brings her satisfaction. Her breath catches, so quietly he might not have heard, had her lips not been pressed to his ear. She exhales slowly, almost a groan, and presses down into the hand he has between her thighs, seeking more from him. He smiles a little at her need. Such a patient woman in all things, all things but this. Both of her hands find their way into his hair, pulling, just slightly, not enough to cause pain, just enough to introduce a little tension to him, for this is a game she plays as well as him.
Through it all, while one hand brings her pleasure, the other lingers on the echo of her pain. There’s no scar to guide his path. No torn skin to seek for. Not even a blemish to indicate the spot. But he knows it. He knows that this is where she was stabbed straight through and pinned to the ground, the time since it happened still measured in minutes. Her hand covers his and holds it, squeezing tight, trying to reassure him.
The steady rocking of her hips pauses, and the fingers in his hair gentle, no longer pulling, simply resting. He feels her eyes upon him, and meets them, as his mind tries to drag him away from her again. Back to the cave. Back to that moment where he had felt her. He had felt her as she strained for him. She had torn the haft of the axe from herself with fury and desperation, so that she might reach him. But the pain of it had overwhelmed her.
He feels her respond to the darkening of his mood. He knows that she is aware of what caused the stutter in his feelings. And he feels a new emotion rise to claim her as she looks at him. Guilt. Guilt and shame. As she remembers his pain. She remembers her efforts to get to him, and thinks not of what she put herself through for him, of how she would have torn the world asunder to reach him, but only that she failed to do so. All of the strength, all of the poise she held herself with as she had claimed him with her body starts to falter and fail. Her head bows and he hears a sob, quickly stifled, but already felt by him.
Lan raises both of his hands at once, startling her, as he breaks from their reverie and ritual of this moment. He places them tenderly on either side of her face, and catches the tears that would fall before they can. Closing his eyes, he draws her in, gentle but inevitable, and touches their foreheads together. Then he holds her there. While his soul answers hers and makes her understand.
He will stand for no guilt from her. Nor will he allow shame. Not in this moment, with nothing between them but sweat, and skin, and darkness. Not when he does not think it possible to love another as keenly as he loves her. And he will not have her feel anything less of herself than the adoration he experiences. Raw and real as a morning sunrise.
Her lips are slightly parted, overwhelmed by him, and her breath comes in short, hot bursts that mingle with his own. His head tilts, just slightly, his nose pressing against hers. He feels her respond, nuzzling against him in silent answer. His lips brush against hers, only just, as gentle as a summer breeze, a question. She answers by leaning in and giving him what he needs, covering his mouth with hers in a deep kiss that he cannot help but gasp into.
Drawing back, panting slightly, he meets her eyes and waits for her nod, and responds with his own. Then he lets his hands fall from her cheeks, though their foreheads remain gently pressed together. He moves them slowly down her body, never missing a fraction of her, flowing perfectly with every curve and shift of her. He leaves one hand grounded on her hip, moving with her as she starts to rock against him once more, seeking that friction between them. The other slides deftly between her thighs, feeling them open for him. With intimate ease, he drags his thumb between her folds again, as slick and wet for him as he is hard and hot for her.
Her body shifts minutely against him, and he allows that to guide him, as he finds her clit, and deliberately makes sure it gently scrapes the callus on the pad of his thumb. She responds at once. Arching against him, her hips press down against his hand, seeking more. Her nails bite deeply into his shoulder as she grips onto him, begs him with that pressure not to stop. The slight hitch in her breath is all the sound she’s likely to give him, but he doesn’t need more. He feels it in their bond. The sensation is not as keen for him as it is for her. It is but an echo of the pleasure he’s coaxed to life within her. But it is enough. In that moment it is everything. To know, to know what he makes her feel, the pleasure that he brings her. He has to bite his lip, and leash himself with all his self control, because he does not want to come tonight before he’s inside her.
Closing his eyes, he repeats the motion of his thumb between her thighs, letting repeated movements become a steady rhythm. Her pleasure builds, but her need is almost unbearable now. Her body strains against him, her hips rocking urgently, altering their pace with every panting breath, pushing him faster, begging for more.
He does not ask her what she needs from him. He does not have to. He knows. From their bond, and from all the times he’s taken care of her in the past. He gives it to her without restraint or hesitation. Thumb working to the beat of her heart against her clit, he slides two fingers into her, curling them, dragging them against that spot inside her. That almost coaxes a whimper from her, as her mouth falls open in pleasure, and he has to grit his teeth against the ache that’s building in him to hold himself back for her.
Her breathing becomes heavier, and she buries her face against his neck once more, in that space where it fits so perfectly, as though his body has evolved through time with her to shape itself precisely to what she needs. His cock twitches as her lips mouth soundlessly against his skin in her pleasure because he knows that it’s his name she presses into him now.
He brings her to the edge, while she clings to him, nails leaving more marks against his skin, and lets herself go where he leads. She’s so close, quivering around him, but he can feel her holding herself back. She doesn’t want it like this tonight. She wants it to be with him. So he slides a hand under her, feeling her move to help him, and lifts her up, bracing her against his chest. One of her hands, shaking, lets go of his shoulders, and wraps around him, guiding him to her. Slowly, so slowly, he lowers her, and she sinks down onto him with a trembling exhalation, while he bites his lip and presses his face down into her thick dark hair as he fights to control himself at the feel of her around him.
***
Moiraine senses the shift as control moves again to her, Lan allowing her to take over. He’s taken care of her so well, and she’s so close for him. Now it is her turn to take care of him. And she does, as she eases down onto him, inch by inch, letting him feel every exquisite second of it. She pushes everything he does to her through the bond, wanting him to know, absolutely, the effect that he has on her. The slick stretch of him filling her, the completeness, as though she was lacking something without him, the rightness of taking him inside her. Lan rewards her with a soft moan into her hair as she settles fully on him, their hips now flush.
She gives him time to adjust, though her body urges her to move. There is something she wants first, and she will have it before she gives in to him completely. Dragging her fingers through his hair, she coaxes him to raise his head so she can look into his eyes as they do this. When he does, she smiles, hands moving to rest on either side of his face, as he had done for her.
***
Lan whispers her name, and she surrenders to him at last. They move together, with a completeness it would be impossible to find with any other partner. She rides him with perfect rhythm. Each pulse of her hips takes him just as deep as he needs her. The agony as he slides out only enhances the intensity when he thrusts back in, a harsh pant of breath pressed into her shoulder with each one. The slick heat of them as she slides down onto him is everything. He lifts up into her, meeting each stroke, angling himself so that he finds that spot within her that makes her tighten around him just. Like. That. His mouth falls open, too far gone to moan for her, he just gasps as they bring each other closer and closer. She tucks her head in against his neck once more, lips pressing against his skin, as they chase each other’s pleasure.
It happens both too soon, and not nearly soon enough. All at once, she shudders around him. She makes that sound, the only one he hears from her when they do this, the faintest quiver of a whine in the back of her throat. Her hands clutch onto him as though she never means to let go. Her body trembles, as her back arches, her mouth fallen open, lips quivering. And she comes around him at last.
***
Moiraine feels her eyes pull shut as her body tightens with pleasure. Lan goes still within her, eyes closed, lips parted, expression exalted. She feels his need through the bond. So close. So close for her. Just needing a little more from her. Just a little more. Shaking, she clutches his face between her hands and opens her eyes, even as the aftershocks burst through her like shooting stars in a blank night sky. Meeting his gaze she nods urgently to him, making herself move on him again, oversensitive and trembling as she is, giving him what he needs.
“Come,” she whispers to him, “Come.”
As before, he obeys. Crying out her name and muffling the sound of it in her skin, he fills her in a rush, thrusting up into her one last time. She lets out a little sigh as he does, feeling his relief crash through the bond.
Breathing hard, chests rising and falling in unison, hearts pounding out a singular beat, they take a moment to recover. The bond, usually a gentle trickle between them, has swelled to a flood as they had embraced it, and each other. As they pant, and shake, and hold each other, it begins to return to something more normal. Though it’s still overly sensitive, like their sparking skin, and she feels acutely aware of the minute details of his emotions, even as they withdraw from one another.
***
Collapsing back down against him, Moiraine nuzzles gently into his neck. He can feel a dampness there that he knows comes not from sweat, but silent tears. He brushes them away, as he might a stray strand of hair, with careful casualness, not drawing attention to the state of their emotions. They will have a conversation about this, he’ll make sure of it, but it can wait a while yet until she’s ready. His fingers find that spot between her shoulder blades that he knows will knot with her anxiety, and work gently at it, feeling her relax again, where tension had begun to creep in.
“We should rest now,” he murmurs softly into her hair, feeling it stir with the heat of his breath.
Gratitude stirs within her for that, and for the blanket he drapes around her shoulders, when he senses her starting to feel cold.
As they adjust, he slips out of her, and she shifts, a note of displeasure in her, which makes him smile. She does not let him rise to fetch wet cloths to clean them, though. Her composure has not quite returned, and in its absence, she needs him there. So he stays, resting his chin on top of her head, tucking her in close.
Finally, she gives him a gentle nudge, allowing him to leave. Lifting her with ease, he sets her down on the bed, then moves off. He returns with a small bowl of water, which she channels a little warmer for them. He attends to her, and she to him, the closing stages of their ceremony.
Then they dress one another. He would have preferred to remain naked, holding her to him, skin to skin, for that last moment of comfort before they rest. But he knows she would never relax that way. So they dress again, then he draws her into bed, and lets her hold him as they succumb to sleep.
