Author's Note: Seriously not enough rated M fics for this pairing, and it surprises me. Decided to remedy this fact with a little twist. This is chaptered, but just about complete, so no worries on whether or not it'll get finished since it already has been. Update will come every Sunday or so (earlier if given enough love- speaking of love, thanks for giving my other Mabastian fic 'Scars' so much of it! You guys are awesome).

Timeline: Sometime during a fangirl's imagination the night after Bash and Mary get married, and the day after.


Chapter 1: A Night with a King

The wedding happened much quicker than anticipated. One moment Mary was getting fussed over and adorned with enough jewelry to double her weight, the next moment she was getting whisked away to a room— not her room, not Sebastian's room— some other room, unfamiliar, well-prepared, far too large, but the hearth was a nice touch. How did they make those flames get so high? Where did they get logs that size? Really, it was quite warm in here already, the fireplace was practically a forge—

"Mary," Bash said, smiling in amusement above her. It was clear by the twinkle in his eyes that he had called her name more than once.

"Yes?" she said— squeaked, really.

"Mary, where did you go?"

Again, she was struck by the nearness of him. They were still clothed, but barely— her in her night shift and him in a loose white shirt and she hadn't the constitution to look further down. She could barely remember the servants removing her earrings, her necklaces, her bracelets (what was the point of all that jewelry when it was all coming off anyway?), her wedding dress— they left her wedding band at least, how kind— and suddenly she was here. Under Bash. On some too-soft bed that was attempting to consume them both. Consume. Right. That's what they were here to do. Consummation. Right.

"Mary." Bash said again, almost in exasperation, this time a chuckle followed her name. He was so close his breath ruffled her hair.

Mary's eyes focused back on Bash again, throat constricting, just a little. She could hear some of the "witnesses" (voyeurs!) shifting beyond the curtain around their bed.

"I swear," Bash continued, his eyes swept over her face from her eyes, to her lips, over her cheeks, back to her eyes again. He shifted his weight to one side so he was still suspended above her, but had freedom to use a hand to gently sweep a lock of hair from her forehead. He visibly swallowed. "I swear," he repeated, voice reduced to a whisper, "I could see your heartbeat like a caged thing in your throat. You must relax."

Relax. Relax, when his arms were either side of her head and shoulders, and he was centimeters away? Relax, when basically all of France were just outside of several layers of heavy, though sheer, white curtain? Waiting for her to moan, or whimper, or whatever it was she was supposed to do that indicated that she was doing what she was supposed to be doing... she was thinking in circles.

"Do you think your father put enough curtains in the room? Am I supposed to see you?"

Her weak joke made Bash smile again. He caressed her cheek soothingly. "Ah. And the Queen has a voice after all. I was wondering if I finally managed to render you speechless. If I knew all it took was getting you into bed..."

Mary couldn't stop her smile from forming. "Mercy, Bash, do you ever relent?"

"I could," he murmured, eyes intent, and Mary felt her cheeks reddening at the wonderment she saw in them. For her. "And I would," he went on, softly, "if you asked. I would do anything you would ask of me."

And she knew it was true. She cupped his face, took in the longing she saw there, felt it reflected deep inside her core, aching to meet him. Mary felt herself rise her head, just a little, her lips drawn to his like—

Someone coughed over by the foot of the bed. Mary practically jumped out of her skin. Then she remembered where she was and where this was supposed to lead to, and how many people were in the room with them— she could see Bash deflate, look away for just a moment as if silently cursing the person who interrupted their moment, before his attention returned to her. He took in her nervous expression, the stiffness in her shoulders, and then as if he made up his mind he gave her a determined, minute nod and rolled off to her side.

Mary felt the panic well inside her. "Bash, what are you—"

He quickly put a finger to her lips, silencing her immediately. "We don't have to do this." he said, his voice so low, so quiet, that if she wasn't as close as she was, she wouldn't have heard it.

"But Scotland—"

He pressed her lips with his finger with just a little more insistence. "No, Mary," he continued quietly, "If we do this, I want to be making love to you, not to a nation." Seeing her open her mouth in protest again, he quickly went on, "I know what we have to do. But we don't have to do it tonight."

There was question bright in her eyes and he smiled at her curiosity. "Would you like to play a game?" he mouthed to her, "A game of pretend?"

Following his line of thinking, she rose her eyebrows. "Is it an embarrassing one?"

He grinned at her. "Very." And without further preamble, he grabbed her by the hips, and flipped her on top of him so quickly she couldn't help the squeal of laughter that pealed from her lips. She caught herself from falling over by placing her hands on his chest and suddenly she realized she was straddling his hips. He gave her a roguish grin and Mary gave him her best "You did just not" look she could muster under the circumstances. Then, he began to move. Thrusting his hips upwards. Under her. Mary flushed considerably. He huffed dramatically, eyebrows wrinkling, his breathing becoming more and more labored with each faux stroke. "Ah, Mary. You are perfection." he exalted breathlessly. Mary felt her hands clench his shirt at his manner of speech, the way he said her name, she cold feel her ears growing hot— surely, he must know, people could hear him? And without changing pace, his expression changed to the Bash she knew— He rose his eyebrows, inclining his head to her as if saying 'follow my lead.' Mary looked at him, lost, embarrassed, feeling altogether too warm. He clenched her hips just a little tighter, and if it was possible, Mary felt herself redden further at how right they felt wrapped on either side of her. He raised her hips up and down against him. 'Move with me' he mouthed. Mary, only having done this once before and never atop someone, was clearly out of her element and was thankful for the lead. She started to move of her own accord, bouncing in rhythm against him, and seeing Bash throw his head back, she did the same. The sound of his heavy, mouth-breathing filled her ears— deep, heated, stirring something within her. She hadn't realized her own breath was becoming labored, from the exertion of their false display. There was something... pleasurable, about the bumping of their hips alone. Mary clenched her hands on his chest again, overly aware of the hard planes of muscle beneath her fingers. She dropped her head back down, eyes meeting his, and her breath caught at the intensity of which he looked at her. His eyes were darker, focused, beautiful in a way that she had never seen.

"Bash," she said, surprised at the hoarseness in her voice, the way it came out broken, breathy. She could see his throat bob as he swallowed and he nodded his assent at how well she was playing their game. A thin sheen of perspiration gathered at the hollow of his neck. Bash's thrusts became just a bit harder, just a little more insistent, as he mimicked the coming of his climax. The action thrust her a little more forward against him, and she caught herself again, breath catching at the back of her throat in an unintended gasp. This new alteration of their position made it so she was positively rubbing herself on his abdomen, his thrusts and hands on her hips, keeping her low to his body to create the full illusion of their coupling. She closed her eyes. The angle rubbed her in places touched once by Francis, but not like this. Not where she had the leverage, the weight of her body pressing down. It felt good. It felt really good.

"Bash," she said again, his name slipping from her lips breathily— wanting to ask, not knowing how. She opened her eyes, and Bash was there, right with her, eyes boring into her soul, a torrent of something primal just brimming the surface. "I want..." she was having trouble concentrating— the sound of their breaths intermingling, the pleasure he stirred between them inexplicable, unexpected, not enough. "Please." she whispered, voice breaking. She grabbed for his left hand on her hip, guiding it under her and to her core. He stiffened, his pace faltering just a moment, as she pressed his fingers to her, and he could feel how wet she was. His eyes widened, unsure of what she was asking, looking deeply into her eyes as if they held instruction. Mary began moving her hand against his, rubbing herself with his fingers in such a way her eyes fell closed and she gasped his name. Over, and over, and over. Still thrusting to keep up their charade, he used his other hand to pull hers from his left as he continued to stroke her unguided. Her eyes opened in question, worried he might stop, desperate he would not, and she met his gaze as he lifted her fingers to his lips. Bash kissed them, lovingly, adoringly, and then speeding up his ministrations beneath her as if sensing her closeness, the winding curling low and tight within her belly, he brought her first two fingers into her mouth without breaking their gaze, suckling her juices from them. The action was altogether so erotic she felt the winding inside her tighten abruptly— and snap. Her back arched away from him, as if her soul was trying to fly out of her body, and she shouted his name brokenly. She felt herself shatter, and she shook above him, a pleasure so intense it was almost pain— and then she slid back together again, boneless. She collapsed against him, breathing heavily, and distantly she was aware that he had stopped thrusting, that he was caressing her hair, murmuring something beautiful in French against the top of her head. French too deep that she couldn't have possibly learned it at the convent. But it was lovely, and if she wasn't so tired at that moment she would have insisted he speak nothing but French to her for the rest of their lives.

In that moment, Mary was so completely happy she was asleep before she heard the last of the witnesses leave the room.


A/N: I was never in a fandom in which I had to actively isolate myself from it while writing because it made me too depressed. At least, until Mabastian. On that note, if you liked it, please tell me why! If you couldn't stand it, please tell me why! If you prefer cake over pie or you actually enjoy pineapple-anchovy pizza, please tell me why! As one of my favorite fanfic authors once said, "Reviews are the only way we get paid." Thank you for reading!