So Jone has to resist every urge to hit him, to tear at him? She can feel herself seething under the strain; what little kindness she has runs thin. She is about to hiss some curse, claw into him, and-
And he is apologizing.
Still, she continues to push, attempting to twist away from him. "I know that. I know- let go of me, or there will be a fight, Gabranth, and you may win, but you will regret it."
They can solve this when he is not gripping her like- like some others she has known.
It is not within his nature to relent. Not without necessity bearing down upon him like a tempered blade, by way of authority or status or— in this unique instance— simple, potent respect. Something she has earned by now, even if it does not always show.
Thus his inhale is slow, like the click of a turning lock under key. His fingers unwind, one after the other, willed into docile obedience.
And perhaps it is absurd. No, truly it is, he comes to realize, standing there before her so entirely undressed, attempting to broach some deeper aspect of her pain or frustration.
“Forgive me.” he says, dourly, before extricating himself and moving to return to his own room. Unable to stomach the aftermath of his folly.
It's good that he leaves. It gives Jone time to think. It allows her time to breathe.
And if he does not see her sitting on the floor, slouched over herself, reliving moments where men had held her far more roughly-- that is good. She can live with that privacy. There are parts of themselves neither wants to share. She can still be true and have her worst shames hidden. Isn't that the point?
She emerges some long minutes later, mostly dry. Her clothes, she retrieves from the floor, dressing quickly and silently. When she finds Gabranth in his room, she slouches in the doorway, her body arranged with the confidence she may have lacked before.
"I adore you, Gabranth," she says, refusing to look away, "and more than that, I respect you. I'll give you everything I have, if I know you want it, so long as you never hold me down when I'm past wanting it. Not because I couldn't hurt you, but because I really, really could."
He grants whatever time she requires. Lacking any overt reason as to why, he assumes respect. Owed dignity, owed understanding. Favors he does not usually offer, and ones he's left with in hand once she returns— dressed in her own clothing, as he is now, too.
His head is not turned to meet hers, he only glances up from beneath the shadow of his brow. He listens as he must, and as diligently as can be managed, but in the end, his conclusion is only the same:
"I do not understand you. It has been an age since last I took anything for myself, without it being a formality. A requested gift, such as all you see before you." A truth she likely already grasps. And so, with effort, he adds, his voice snared by low friction.
"But you must know that I am endeavoring to speak— or perhaps to think, at times, as you do. To avoid point of pain."
This, in its own way, is a promise that he'll make no such trespass again.
Edited (I might be melting today I'm sorry) 2021-06-22 00:22 (UTC)
How can she not forgive him? Maybe if she were a different person, someone who were more accustomed to people trying for her sake. Maybe if she felt like anyone had ever tried.
She walks over to him, her hands finding his shoulders, her lips briefly brushing over his forehead. I forgive you.
"What don't you understand?" She sighs, "this time. I haven't all night."
He leans into the contact she provides, surprised to find himself so set on it (only a few weeks of this indulgence, perhaps a month since Videreyn at its barest bones, and yet he finds himself winding into her fingers like a hound strained, starved) and yet potently vexed in the next beat at the specificity of her question, knowing full well this means yet another foray into matters of emotional expression. His bane.
It may take all night regardless, with the way his browline knits beneath her lips.
"You shy from nothing." He works his jaw as he thinks, cinching and relaxing by degrees, and chases it then with careful speech. "Yet when I held you, you seemed near fearful of it."
That's easy, and no secret. Yet she finds herself leaning down further, hiding her face in the crook of his neck. He hasn't washed; he still smells of sex and sweat. It's almost funny. She's not sure why, but it is.
"I wasn't always big and strong," she says, gentle, careful. "When I wasn't, others were, and they weren't kind."
Not uncommon, that tale. In truth, he imagines he has been the crueler party many a time since the fall of Landis. It makes him wonder, briefly, if she notices that ugliness in him— before promptly discarding that thought for its foolishness. Of course she does. He'd confessed to her the lives he mercilessly took in her name, and she, in that moment, seemed contented by the knowledge.
So there is a difference, he thinks, to what snares her, and what she finds acceptable. Something tucked away in the back of his mind. Committed wholly to memory.
"I am not as they were." A hollow assurance from a man that bruised her wrist in wanting, but given time, he seems certain he'll prove fit to keep his word. Folding his arms about her waist, leaving her to linger where she likes. To rest as she likes, her breath warm across his collar.
Something unlocks in her, relief and fatigue all in one. She loops her arms over his shoulders as she pushes him back on the bed. The wheels in her mind turn too slowly to think of sex, just then. She wants his body for the shape of it, not the feel. Lying atop his bed, all she wants is his closeness, his warmth.
He wants that, too. He didn't say it, but he knew.
"I know," she says, and she believes it. "You look nothing like me, to start with."
It's a joke, and a dumb one. "Do you have more questions? I'm feeling generous."
It is an easy thing, to maneuver him. He falls back without protest, without anger; she is a trusted creature in his eyes, and by now she could do as she likes with little more than a single, throaty grumble from him in turn. A tamed creature in place of a bitter hound.
He catches her shoulders with his hands, rough fingers crawling across thin fabric, far from hungry, only hunting for a place to rest with ease. For ease. And under the weight of that security, he allows his thoughts to wander.
Perhaps more than she had in mind.
"If your leash were cut tomorrow, where would you flee?"
"I wouldn't leave you," she blurts immediately, without thinking. How silly. There she was, thinking of all the ways she's been ill-used, and still she casts herself the noble statue, sedentary at his side.
Her anger has always been a pithy thing compared to her devotion.
With the benefit of time (a moment, two) to think, she adds, "unless it was the only way to uphold... you."
“I was not seeking assurances.” murmured in turn, though the moment the words leave his lips he realizes he does in fact crave such a promise. That it leaves him marginally more at ease to hear it, even if words are so often empty vessels for grander failures.
Breathing out, he twists his fingers against the damp edges of her hair, nothing harsh or hard— only exploratory. Curious, even. Brittle and wet beneath his touch, and soft all the same.
Small luxuries such as this were never his to know before now.
Jone hums, contented pleasure evident. She shifts a little, so Gabranth may have more access to touch whatever he likes of her-- her hair, her back, anything. Idle touch like this makes her blood sing, and she only wants to encourage it.
"I intended to stay before I met you, you know." A smile curves her lips; a gentle tease. "I doubt I would have been as dedicated without your influence, but never faithless enough to leave, except in death. I do take oaths and loyalty seriously, for all my joking."
“I have been no different,” he confesses, letting his head sink down into the mattress as he leaves himself to slacken— save for his hold on her.
“There was so much I wanted, when first I ceded my life to the Empire. What I learned, once all hopes had failed me— or succeeded in full bloom— was that I knew nothing else. And desired nothing else.”
Whether habit or whole truth, it does not matter. He can imagine no future without it.
"I hope you want me a little," she murmurs into his ear, but it's mostly teasing. For once, she doesn't need to hear it. In this moment, she can feel it, and finally that's all that matters.
"I admit..." her voice quiets further, words pressed into the cloth over his shoulder; a whisper only he can hear. "All I wanted died when the Empire came to Fedlhelm. This service suits well for a life stretched past... past what I thought I could endure."
The sound he makes is far from a laugh, more akin to a catching, throaty breath, but amusement shines within it all the same: his eyes shut in a rare show of relaxation, thumbs kneading listlessly into the muscle framing her spine. Useless. Thoughtful.
“That was before we met.”
But when she sinks nearer, and her voice turns to whisper, that edge of restoration leaves him. Turns him again back towards the hollower track lines of familiar thought.
“The gods are cruel in their sport, for always twisting fate ever into what we would not choose for ourselves, if granted opportunity. Yet I think it no small favor, that you have ended your passage here.”
A favor in his name, he means, as much as Archadia itself; he would have it no other way.
It makes her happy. His momentary peace, his reassurances. Maybe she can find a place here-- more than what she already has, a place with purpose. She does not expect peace, or even longevity. She has realized this new-bubbling hope gives way to a desire: a final breath before she dies.
Face pressed in his shoulder, she breathes in-
"Things as they are," she says, voice a bit hoarse with emotion held back, "I wouldn't have it another way."
She reaches out, holding him closely in the embrace she'd aborted before.
There is no better aim than that. No greater hope to be stolen from life itself— either blessed or cursed.
He rests his cheek across her shoulder in turn, his eyes half-lidded, staring drowsily at the ceiling overhead, studying nothing in particular but the give of his own thoughts.
“Am I to take it this means you will instead remain here tonight?”
It is wry. His lips twist when he speaks, just the barest, near-imperceptible difference.
Jone looks up just in time to catch that almost-smile, and it warms her heart. She wonders if she is so starved for scraps this will suffice, or... she may truly be in love with a difficult, delicate creature.
It's difficult, at times, to tell. She's had no great or little loves in life, but has known for some time she wanted one. How do you tell the difference, between nothing at all and a surfeit of the stuff?
Idly, she kisses his ear again, soft and affectionate. "I had thought you preferred your privacy. It'll be much harder to hide this, me sneaking out in the morning."
That's why he didn't stay with her last time, isn't it?
“I prefer your security.” He corrects, caught between a pinching mixture of stern determination and thready tension beneath the warm press of her lips to his ear, dizzying the edges of his dour bearing. “I do not wish your efforts to be misconstrued by colleagues or betters— ”
Then why does the thought of her remaining here tip the scales so? Why does it now calm him, more than the thought of her absence? Selfishness?
Such a thing cannot have a home in him. And yet—
“Yet if one leaves early enough in the morning, perhaps no notice will be taken, provided you are present for any mending efforts on part of the healers Emperor Gramis has sent.”
She wants to reassure him, and she's not sure why. The way he talks, bringing formality into a shared bed, it's... odd. How could her efforts be misconstrued? She is doing the very thing gossip is made about.
It occurs to her that he may think her a valiant creature beyond the borders of her actions. She's not sure how, or what shape that would even take, and yet the idea has its appeal. Maybe that's why he treats her with such distance.
She kisses him again, unsure what else to do with the thought. Her lips find his cheekbone, and she laughs. "Don't worry," she says. "The healers don't bother me anymore. I can take some time for you."
Maybe not all night. But she can be fast, and rises quickly. She'll give him what time she has.
Why would he not think her valiant? She has— by the standards of a Judge Magister— been no less. Her viciousness, her loyalty, her simple tightly-adhered truths. He views her as nothing less than that. Considers nothing else but that. His world is narrow, its concepts ever the definition of cut and dry.
“I am not asking for sex, Jone.” Voice gone mild as he tries to keep hold of her in her withdrawal— their thoughts at odds in this moment (though her delight no less cherished for it, the heat of her mouth no less welcome).
Then again, as his gaze shifts to take in the sight of her, he realizes he is...not against the idea of it, either.
"I wasn't offering-" She means to give him a playful shove, prepared for him to bristle and willing to do it anyway. (If he's to become accustomed to her, she'll have to stop cutting pieces of herself away to fit into a shape he may not, actually, want to begin with. He wants her right? That's what he said? Implied? She can't tell anymore.)
And then she catches his look, canine in its acuity, and finds there's heat beyond the usual shadow of his rage. She swallows slowly, finding the intensity of his stare an easy thing to respond to. An easy thing to return.
"D'you wanna try asking now?"
To return, and then drop, breaking into a teasing smile.
It grazes the near edge of something fond. Potentially teasing in turn, though he lacks the delicacy of a softer expression, voice poorly suited to this game— his fingertips rising regardless, reaching to settle low against the hem of her shirt, knotting it within his grasp with ember-dull hunger. Due to be kindled into flame.
Jone, straining to hear every breath he takes, finds that humor. She wants to cradle it and let it grow. Laughing and joking helps her, at the very least; it makes the world seem so much less dire and pointless. Maybe, some day, it could help him, even a little.
Her fingers trace his jaw. "I could be persuaded," she says, "you're very persuasive, when you look like this."
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no subject
And he is apologizing.
Still, she continues to push, attempting to twist away from him. "I know that. I know- let go of me, or there will be a fight, Gabranth, and you may win, but you will regret it."
They can solve this when he is not gripping her like- like some others she has known.
finds typo in my prior tag, promptly expires
Thus his inhale is slow, like the click of a turning lock under key. His fingers unwind, one after the other, willed into docile obedience.
And perhaps it is absurd. No, truly it is, he comes to realize, standing there before her so entirely undressed, attempting to broach some deeper aspect of her pain or frustration.
“Forgive me.” he says, dourly, before extricating himself and moving to return to his own room. Unable to stomach the aftermath of his folly.
resurrection scroll tyvm.
And if he does not see her sitting on the floor, slouched over herself, reliving moments where men had held her far more roughly-- that is good. She can live with that privacy. There are parts of themselves neither wants to share. She can still be true and have her worst shames hidden. Isn't that the point?
She emerges some long minutes later, mostly dry. Her clothes, she retrieves from the floor, dressing quickly and silently. When she finds Gabranth in his room, she slouches in the doorway, her body arranged with the confidence she may have lacked before.
"I adore you, Gabranth," she says, refusing to look away, "and more than that, I respect you. I'll give you everything I have, if I know you want it, so long as you never hold me down when I'm past wanting it. Not because I couldn't hurt you, but because I really, really could."
no subject
His head is not turned to meet hers, he only glances up from beneath the shadow of his brow. He listens as he must, and as diligently as can be managed, but in the end, his conclusion is only the same:
"I do not understand you. It has been an age since last I took anything for myself, without it being a formality. A requested gift, such as all you see before you." A truth she likely already grasps. And so, with effort, he adds, his voice snared by low friction.
"But you must know that I am endeavoring to speak— or perhaps to think, at times, as you do. To avoid point of pain."
This, in its own way, is a promise that he'll make no such trespass again.
no subject
She walks over to him, her hands finding his shoulders, her lips briefly brushing over his forehead. I forgive you.
"What don't you understand?" She sighs, "this time. I haven't all night."
no subject
It may take all night regardless, with the way his browline knits beneath her lips.
"You shy from nothing." He works his jaw as he thinks, cinching and relaxing by degrees, and chases it then with careful speech. "Yet when I held you, you seemed near fearful of it."
no subject
"I wasn't always big and strong," she says, gentle, careful. "When I wasn't, others were, and they weren't kind."
no subject
So there is a difference, he thinks, to what snares her, and what she finds acceptable. Something tucked away in the back of his mind. Committed wholly to memory.
"I am not as they were." A hollow assurance from a man that bruised her wrist in wanting, but given time, he seems certain he'll prove fit to keep his word. Folding his arms about her waist, leaving her to linger where she likes. To rest as she likes, her breath warm across his collar.
"I would never be."
no subject
He wants that, too. He didn't say it, but he knew.
"I know," she says, and she believes it. "You look nothing like me, to start with."
It's a joke, and a dumb one. "Do you have more questions? I'm feeling generous."
no subject
He catches her shoulders with his hands, rough fingers crawling across thin fabric, far from hungry, only hunting for a place to rest with ease. For ease. And under the weight of that security, he allows his thoughts to wander.
Perhaps more than she had in mind.
"If your leash were cut tomorrow, where would you flee?"
no subject
Her anger has always been a pithy thing compared to her devotion.
With the benefit of time (a moment, two) to think, she adds, "unless it was the only way to uphold... you."
no subject
Breathing out, he twists his fingers against the damp edges of her hair, nothing harsh or hard— only exploratory. Curious, even. Brittle and wet beneath his touch, and soft all the same.
Small luxuries such as this were never his to know before now.
“Consider me removed from the question.”
no subject
"I intended to stay before I met you, you know." A smile curves her lips; a gentle tease. "I doubt I would have been as dedicated without your influence, but never faithless enough to leave, except in death. I do take oaths and loyalty seriously, for all my joking."
no subject
“There was so much I wanted, when first I ceded my life to the Empire. What I learned, once all hopes had failed me— or succeeded in full bloom— was that I knew nothing else. And desired nothing else.”
Whether habit or whole truth, it does not matter. He can imagine no future without it.
no subject
"I admit..." her voice quiets further, words pressed into the cloth over his shoulder; a whisper only he can hear. "All I wanted died when the Empire came to Fedlhelm. This service suits well for a life stretched past... past what I thought I could endure."
no subject
“That was before we met.”
But when she sinks nearer, and her voice turns to whisper, that edge of restoration leaves him. Turns him again back towards the hollower track lines of familiar thought.
“The gods are cruel in their sport, for always twisting fate ever into what we would not choose for ourselves, if granted opportunity. Yet I think it no small favor, that you have ended your passage here.”
A favor in his name, he means, as much as Archadia itself; he would have it no other way.
no subject
Face pressed in his shoulder, she breathes in-
"Things as they are," she says, voice a bit hoarse with emotion held back, "I wouldn't have it another way."
She reaches out, holding him closely in the embrace she'd aborted before.
no subject
He rests his cheek across her shoulder in turn, his eyes half-lidded, staring drowsily at the ceiling overhead, studying nothing in particular but the give of his own thoughts.
“Am I to take it this means you will instead remain here tonight?”
It is wry. His lips twist when he speaks, just the barest, near-imperceptible difference.
no subject
It's difficult, at times, to tell. She's had no great or little loves in life, but has known for some time she wanted one. How do you tell the difference, between nothing at all and a surfeit of the stuff?
Idly, she kisses his ear again, soft and affectionate. "I had thought you preferred your privacy. It'll be much harder to hide this, me sneaking out in the morning."
That's why he didn't stay with her last time, isn't it?
no subject
Then why does the thought of her remaining here tip the scales so? Why does it now calm him, more than the thought of her absence? Selfishness?
Such a thing cannot have a home in him. And yet—
“Yet if one leaves early enough in the morning, perhaps no notice will be taken, provided you are present for any mending efforts on part of the healers Emperor Gramis has sent.”
no subject
It occurs to her that he may think her a valiant creature beyond the borders of her actions. She's not sure how, or what shape that would even take, and yet the idea has its appeal. Maybe that's why he treats her with such distance.
She kisses him again, unsure what else to do with the thought. Her lips find his cheekbone, and she laughs. "Don't worry," she says. "The healers don't bother me anymore. I can take some time for you."
Maybe not all night. But she can be fast, and rises quickly. She'll give him what time she has.
no subject
“I am not asking for sex, Jone.” Voice gone mild as he tries to keep hold of her in her withdrawal— their thoughts at odds in this moment (though her delight no less cherished for it, the heat of her mouth no less welcome).
Then again, as his gaze shifts to take in the sight of her, he realizes he is...not against the idea of it, either.
Ah.
no subject
And then she catches his look, canine in its acuity, and finds there's heat beyond the usual shadow of his rage. She swallows slowly, finding the intensity of his stare an easy thing to respond to. An easy thing to return.
"D'you wanna try asking now?"
To return, and then drop, breaking into a teasing smile.
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It grazes the near edge of something fond. Potentially teasing in turn, though he lacks the delicacy of a softer expression, voice poorly suited to this game— his fingertips rising regardless, reaching to settle low against the hem of her shirt, knotting it within his grasp with ember-dull hunger. Due to be kindled into flame.
Unmistakable all the same.
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Her fingers trace his jaw. "I could be persuaded," she says, "you're very persuasive, when you look like this."
Well-kissed, bruised, and in her arms.
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