Lordling -- Vocabulary Word
lordling
: a little or insignificant lord
First Known Use 13th century, in the meaning defined above Time Traveler
The first known use of lordling was in the 13th century
See: https://rhianna.tumblr.com/post/703659207729250304/riches-have-wings-or-a-tale-for-the-rich-and
Littlefinger gives Bran the Valyrian steel dagger that the cutthroat attempted to murder the lordling with in Episode 2, along with Littlefinger's version of the story. — Rena Gross, Billboard, 7 Aug. 2017
“Lordling.” Merriam-Webster.com Dictionary, Merriam-Webster, https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/lordling. Accessed 14 Dec. 2022.
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Okay, slightly spicy hours, but AU with kings' guard/knight Clark and spoiled prince Bruce.
Prince Bruce who's usually a cheeky little brat, yes, but always respectful and mindful of the way he treats staff. They aren't fearful to smack a wooden spoon over a pearly hand if grabby hands steal from the kitchen.
There's been numerous occasions where they had to drag him off by his ear after too many hours wasted playing street children. Alfred is particularly famous for controlling their little menace.
But still. They've never seen Bruce so DETERMINED to be a complete and utter handful before. He usually brats off to fellow princes, lords.
And they aren't half as beautiful as the armoured five course meal Thomas brought specially from Krypton.
Bruce who's bossy, throwing out " fetch me that, farm boy" left to right even if he's perfectly capable of being independent. Making Clark chase him around training grounds after refusing to stay for studies. Dropping a fork or a satin handkerchief and telling the poor man to pick it up.
The interesting and confusing part is...One might say Bruce is completely enamored by the man.
Harley swears she saw a plate of oranges and peaches left at Clark's doorsteps. Next to it, a note left with Bruce's elegant writing.
Oliver usually sees his friend in the library, but he rarely takes records and books with him, since he prefers the workshop. It's only after Bruce insists to straddle a knight during sparring sessions and Clark's room echoes with wails and screams does he get it.
Their Brucie was ill with love, and he had no idea what to do about it.
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Dark Urge/Gortash
Just a Drabble I cant get out of my head- Durge is able to recover more of his memories along his travels back to Baldurs Gate, and Orin doesn’t bother telling Gortash that her kin has returned.
“Hello, Lordling”
The Dark Urge, Son of Bhaal, Nox leans back against the old, mahogany desk in his dear friend, Gortash’s office where he’s been waiting, ever patiently, for the tyrant to arrive.
It’s luxurious to a point Nox had once found gaudy, but the room gives him a warm feeling in his chest now. Some parts of his memories echo through his empty brain as mere feelings and impressions. Some remain vivid, yet the bulk of what he could access shows glimpses of his life only in the months before Orin’s attack, but he knows they go deeper. Flashes of late night scheming, shared heists, interrogations, pools of blood, carefully plotted assassinations, then, the smell of avernus clinging to their skin amidst a first kiss. All of it went back to him- Gortash, not Bhaal. Not his fathers wishes or the Urge or even the temple. Everything in Nox’s empty brain was bringing him here.
He let his companions greet the new archduke on their own, but he watched from the shadows, the disappointment in Gortash’s eyes betraying the tyrant, but this was a meeting better had in privacy. The very same newly coronated archduke stands in front of him now for the first time in only the gods know how long.
“Fuck off,” Gortash grumbles, a tight frown on his face. The large double doors of the office swing closed behind him. As their eyes meet, Nox can see the extent of exhaustion that permeates the tyrant’s being. Circles much darker than usual shroud his near-black eyes. His hair had grown in the past two months, resting on his collarbones in disarray. Even the way he breathes sings of discontent.
Nox tilts his head, unmoving from his spot on the lord’s desk “Not the welcome home I was hoping for. I can understand your anger, but-”
“-Orin” the duke hisses sharply, “I have better things to do than this. As do you. Make yourself useful for once.”
Orin. Something in Nox’s chest sinks with the realization, “She’s been mocking you with my face? Gods- I’m going to kill that inbred little bitch the second I see her” he growls.
That earned a raised eyebrow from Enver, but the duke keeps wary eyes trained on his assassin “I’m not playing your games this time” he sighs.
“I assure you, Enver, I am not here to play games.”
Nox watches as Gortash moves across the room to his liquor cabinet against the wall, fine wood gilded in gold. The duke’s eyes stay trained on him, even as he begins to pour a glass of fine, amber whiskey. “Yes, yes, you will slash me in two, bathe in my blood, and what was it-” Gortash pauses to take a long, slow sip, sighing once again “-wear my intestines as a scarf? No matter- all the same, uncouth drabble with you.”
“Not until the end. And not like that. I won’t kill you until- unless we are the last two living in all the realm. First you, then me.” Nox clenches his fingers, his jaw tightening and untightening as he feels the images of Enver’s death set in behind his eyes. The Urge whispers for him to take the Banite now, but he knows better. He takes a slow, deep breath, reaching instinctively to the band around his wrist. He focuses on the feelings to ground himself for a moment before continuing. “I believe that was the promise I made you before- Well, things are hazy- a lobotomy does that to you.”
Enver stops, his glass half raised to his lips as his eyes widen. Nox can nearly see his thoughts, debates. He’s questioning if Orin could have such knowledge, if Orin could keep calm this long in a conversation, if Orin could push down her Urge. Nox gives a lopsided smile as he continues. “I don’t remember everything, but I remember you. I came back for you- to stand by you. As we are meant to be.”
It only takes a few seconds for Gortash to cross the room, his glass crashing into the golden tray below it, well abandoned; and Nox smiles, allowing his shirt collar to be grasped tightly in the duke’s hands. Gortash crowds his space, leering at him. There’s venom in his expression, but just below that lies hope.
“Prove it or die.”
How many times had Orin tried this? How many times did she dangle Nox in front of Enver? Did she pretend to return to him just like this? Or simply take his form to berate the tyrant lord? The thought makes the teifling’s blood boil. But he will save that rage for later.
Nox huffs out a chuckle, “If I were Orin, I would have my fucking dagger, and this goddamn tadpole wouldn’t be in my head, Enver.”
His words are enough, and Gortash yanks the collar of his shirt forward until they are pressed against each other, their lips colliding in a rough, forceful kiss that dissolves into desperation. For Nox, it’s familiar and new all at once as if he were acting out a scene he had only seen in a play; he knew Enver’s taste, his smell, the way he was rough and gentle all at once. Yet, feeling it rather than seeing it through a haze of lost memories and confusion was enough to make his knees weak.
“You have a tadpole in your head. You gods damned idiot.” Enver smiled against his lips, words devoid of venom. His hands move up to cup Nox’s face, warm gold of Gortash’s gauntlets pressing against his cheeks. “I have missed you so, my dearest.”
“I missed you, too.” Nox chuckles, and his cheeks warm up as if the words were meant to stay inside his mind- as if he was supposed to be ashamed by such thoughts, but the way Enver pulls him closer makes him think perhaps it is okay not to be ashamed about some things. Perhaps, whatever lingering worry circles in his mind from before does not matter anymore.
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Victorian AU: prologue
The new stable boy started on the last breath of summer: Draco had far more important things to worry about at the time. Like complaining endlessly, alternating between demanding and begging Father to allow him to remain in town for another season. Like staring longingly at the outfits Mother was having made, not-yet ready, and like sighing and sitting at the windows a lot, thinking how anything would be better than being stuck in the Manor for a six-months.
The appearance of Lord Riddle on their property stirred him just as much as that of the stable boy. Riddle was the worst possible companion as the weather turned: he was maudlin and quiet, chillingly rude, and worst of all, old. Draco missed his friends like a perpetual fish-bone stuck in his throat, and although they had all promised to visit, none had yet done him the courtesy. He was alone in a Manor full of old, boring people, and had nothing nice to wear, and nothing new to read, and nothing at all to do but stare and be miserable.
No-one seemed to care for his very obvious plight. All Father had said was, “cease your sulking at once,” and Mother droned on and on about the nearing ball at the Goyle estate. Nearing meaning in a month, for heaven’s sake: what was Draco supposed to do until then?
Staying with Auntie Bellatrix surely wasn’t a treat, but at least it was out there, in the heart of the action. Here, alone, and miserable, alone, Draco was… alone.
Marcus wasn’t any help. When Draco came to his office to grumble, sitting on his desk and kicking his feet, all he said was that he’s ‘very busy’ and to ‘excuse him, Sir,’ which wasn’t at all satisfying. Mr. Dobby, the head butler, wouldn’t even look at him as he careened down the halls; and the seamstress flatly forbade him from the fitting-chambers, seeing as he was ‘pulling on everyone’s last nerve’ and being ‘utterly obnoxious’. Draco would reach majority next June, and not quite forgave her this: seeing as the kitchen was also off-limits, and Cook a far more fearsome opponent, he turned to the stables.
Mr. Hagrid was Draco’s childhood nemesis, before he’d learned to ride. After that he became a well-respected foe, then, highly-regarded acquaintance, and now, an amiable one. He didn’t complain about Draco’s demeanour or his pouting, instead he gave him a brush and a grimace.
“Go on,” in a tone that wasn’t even offensive, and Draco, who loved his horse better than possibly even Pansy, went.
Her name was Isolde, because Draco was a dramatic child and he definitely hadn’t planned on liking her at all. She was a beautiful thing, strong and quick, with powerful muscles and a soft white mane and the richest, loveliest brown eyes. She, unlike almost everyone, seemed happy to see him.
“Darling,” Draco said as he approached, and pet a loving hand down her flank, “it’s been too long.”
Isolde said nothing, but bore his grooming with good grace. She was given to Draco mostly because of her colouring, because all the ladies had crooned about how lovely a white foal would look under the blond-white lordling. To say they didn’t get along at first would be an understatement: now, she was as familiar to him as the back of his hand, and far more treasured.
And she did look terribly clever under him. Attaching her saddle with reverent fingers, smoothing down the braids he had mindlessly tied, he started leading her out of the stables, already measurably cheered. Then:
“Hold!” a young voice he didn’t recognise. Draco paused with a curious brow raised. “No-one’s allowed to take this mare. You’ll be so kind as to put her back, my lord.”
“How do you mean?” Draco frowned.
“She’s the young sir’s own horse, and he doesn’t allow anyone to ride her. If you’re a guest of the Earl’s, then you’re free to pick any of the other, most excellent steeds.”
Draco didn’t know whether to be amused or outraged. “Are you saying Isolde is not most excellent?”
“Well, if you ask me, she’s a little bit prissy and—hey!” when Draco rounded behind her and stuck an accusing finger in the man’s chest. “You’re—oh.”
“Oh,” Draco breathed out, dangerously. “Oh, indeed. One more word about my horse, and I’ll—who even are you?”
The man—boy?—gulped, bright green eyes wide behind round glasses. “I’m Harry. And you’re—”
“Draco,” as venomously as he could spit it. “Draco Malfoy.”
“Oh.”
He was shorter than Draco, but wider, a strong-looking build. Possibly around his age, give or take a year or so. Dark skin and darker hair, wide brow and respectable jawline. And stupid, as was painfully obvious from his remarks about the world’s best horse. “You’ll have to apologise, of course,” Draco smiled icily.
“I’m sorry, my lord, I didn’t realise—”
“To the horse.”
They looked at each other for a long moment. Harry opened and closed his mouth twice. “To the—horse?”
“Apologise to Isolde. For someone to speak of a divine creature so coarsely is an offence to nature herself. Apologise, now.”
Harry’s mouth was slightly open. He had very red lips. “I,” he said, and gulped, “am. Sorry. Isolde.”
“For speaking so coarsely,” Draco offered helpfully.
“For speaking so coarsely. You are of course a divine creature and I regret besmirching your name with my foul lips. Is that enough, my lord?”
Something jumped in Draco’s belly, a twinge of—he didn’t quite know what. “I think that would do, for now,” loftily, and pet a reassuring hand down Isolde’s crest. “You slip, Mr. Hagrid,” when he clocked the giant figure standing at the entrance to the stables. “The men you used to hire weren’t the brightest, perhaps, but anyone would be better than this impossible buffoon.”
“He’s not that bad, milord,” Mr. Hagrid said with a strange expression, almost nearing a smile he was trying to swallow. “Pray, give him some time, and he might prove himself to you as quite handy.”
“I doubt it,” said Draco. He led Isolde out and cast a glance back, to where Harry was standing frozen and Mr. Hagrid’s shoulders were shaking. “Make sure not to mistake me again,” he said, and hopped on the saddle, and rode away.
Winter was going to be a long, dreary season stuck out here in the country, so far from all his friends and the lively attractions of the city. Draco might have just found something to make it a tiny bit more bearable: atop his favourite horse, he rode towards the forest with a widening grin.
I'm just too excited not to share this! Damn, writing every day was such a rush, but working on a longer project (currently at 13k) feels good too.
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