“You must learn to hold it eventually.” He counters smoothly, though something in his unyielding posture withers itself down into subtlety beneath her hand.
A good sign, in truth, that heaviness of her grip across polished armor. Much like her ability to walk.
“And I’ve placed too much of my own reputation in your skill— your successes— to simply stand by without pressing you into proper conduct.” This, he says, knowing full well they’d played fool in some shoddy little pocket of a restaurant, shirking both duty and augustness alike for the briefest period of time.
“You are not so pedigreed, nor so loved, Jone. You cannot afford to be bold save for your own tactics in battle.”
Perhaps this is his own fault for encouraging her with a free, indulgent hand. That he views her as his equal, when so much of where they stand is based on matters of earned keep— which can always be rescinded.
Helms can be passed on. Refitted. Her lineage means nothing, her wealth only borrowed.
She must not forget this.
“I spoke praise of you, yes. Yet it is all true, and your commendation fast approaches.” Particularly if she stands now, if she walks, even by middling measures.
She leans in, and so does he— shadows deep beneath his eyes. The weight of long, dark eyelashes.
“Consider what that means carefully, for both our sakes.”
You are not so loved. Already, the weight of her own mind twists the recent memory into something more consumable. Did she need to be reminded of that, and the color of the sky, and of air she breathes, and her own name?
Apparently so. She closes her eyes, leaning back. She has forgotten herself. How foolish she must look, to a man made of honor such as Gabranth. A bratty novice, distracted by finery, refusing advice that benefits him as much as her. He has given her so much, and what has she done?
She pauses there, ruminating on her failure. She knows how to keep her expression clear, to avoid the urge to throw herself at something, to cause harm. She knows where she is, and the creature she is expected to be. Perhaps one day, maybe, if she works very hard, someone will put a stake through her as she deserves.
In the meanwhile, she must uphold Gabranth's honor. She opens her eyes. "My apologies," she says, "you're right, as always. I have been... lax, always, but especially now."
He cannot see it. He is too blunted, too blind, to understand the shift in mindset he’s prompted— instead, he thinks she’s only taken to his sharp insistence for the sake of self-preservation, rather than camaraderie.
Which is fortunate. It means there is no weakness in the plating of her figurative armor. That she does not forget she walks in a palace with a thousand eyes.
This will save her, he is certain.
“There is nothing to forgive.” She will do better, and he will see her succeed. There will be no excess friction in her rise to authoritative power. To the Emperor's fully given trust. “I will send Drace to your side tonight, in my own stead, to ensure you are not treated unkindly.”
Jone shakes her head. "No, please. Grant me the kindness of solitude, while I think on this."
Drace means well. She has nothing in common with Drace. She has nothing in common with Gabranth either, she's been so reminded, but at least she feels some modicum of safety in his presence.
Drace is nobility. She is pride in perfection, and the very pinnacle of the Magistrate itself, and even Gabranth struggles to keep pace with the mark she sets.
He...does not blame Jone for this, he realizes. In her place, he would feel no different. No less weak while wounded in such a shadow, when already they are made to feel lesser to begin with. So she asks, and so he relents, dipping his own head in show of absolute deference to it.
Instead at last he sinks at her bedside, settling once more across the edge of the mattress as he favors as of late. One hand resting near her shoulder.
"No. I let my guard down around you; do not confuse it for carelessness. Trust this little, at least, that I can manage for myself."
There, her words are even-keeled, her expression placidly concentrated. She looks as she did when they were preparing for Videreyn, except perhaps more wan and clammy. This is business, her sworn task, and she will not forget again.
It makes him the weaker tether, then, for nearly breaking the very same demands he made of her (yet is that not his right? He has lived in Archades for longer, learned much of the intricacies of etiquette and nuance, even if he cannot always apply that knowledge cleanly— is he not allowed to then be more lax at times, trusting that he can counterbalance if necessary).
“It is not trust.” It is, she has the right of it, but he refuses that logic in much the same way that he refuses to move. To withdraw from her side like the intrusion he is.
“I wish to remain, for myself. For mine own comfort.”
It is not trust. It is not love. (She knew that one, but it still stings to hear aloud.) It is disappointing; she is accustomed to capriciousness, but she had hoped...
No, people are not logical, and do not follow their own commands. Yet it stirs curiosity; Gabranth will not admit why he needs her, beyond comfort. Normally, it would be enough for her. Today, it is not. What a capricious thing she is.
"You are so discomfited by life that you need the company of one you do not trust?"
Again, his words have failed him, or he in executing them, or...caving to the brittleness they house. Perhaps all of it is true, for he remains ever the inverse reflection of the brother that abandoned him: more sharp edges than softness. More wanting than capable of care.
Even so, his expression sinks when he sighs. It is difficult not to be terse in his own correction.
“I do trust you, Jone.” That fact was never in question, he thinks, knowing full well what slights against his own duties he's committed already in her presence. What more he would do if given the chance. “But it is not for trust— or lack thereof— that I refuse to leave your side.”
She should stop here. She should be kind and accommodating, allow him to set his own pace, find comfort in his own limitations. She should be anyone but who she is. She should be someone worthy of his friendship.
Thinking has never been his strongest asset. He makes overtures, spends effort, but at best he is taxed by it, and at worst...
He leans forward without it present at all this time, still carrying the faint scent of metal polish and sweat, catching her mouth with his own without the decency of propriety or concern; always he has been a creature of impulse more than foresight, always does he make himself the enemy of decorum. Dignity.
She hasn't been kissed in years, now. At Gabranth's touch, she is hungry and grasping, pulling him closer, adding tongue and teeth. She'd pull him on top of her if not for the-
"Off- off with the armor. Now."
He has never been a creature of thought, perhaps, but she has never been one of half measures. Presented with a promise, she must have it in its entirety.
He protests, though it does nothing to draw him any further from her side, or her hold on him, his fingers wrapped around her wrist in turn. Holding fast. He loses so much. He has always lost so much.
Instead he kisses her again, sharp edged and demanding, sunset catching through glass in her hair before he shuts his eyes to it, wholly focused in this.
There are a lot of things she could say to that, all crude, all requiring a tongue. She'd rather kiss him, fast and hungry and deep. If she can't convince him with words, she'll convince him with sounds, hungry pants and the occasional keen. This is good. This is amazing. She wants more.
"Let me- touch you." She kisses him. "Just let me touch you." She kisses him again, her teeth finding his lip, turning begging into demands.
That— the sound of her breathing, the rush of it running hot across his tongue, the heave of her chest beneath the edges of his gauntleted fingers— is a language he comprehends well where so many others fail. It is persuasive, it speaks to the simplicity of his hunger.
Or, were he so willing to examine it, his desire.
Her teeth snare his lip, scuff and scrape and bite, and somewhere without intending to he finds himself already working at the clasps of his gauntlets, the ties securing his cloak, his breastplate. Impatient, irritated, even.
But earnest, also.
Had she doubts about his investment, perhaps this will put them to bed.
What she finds is a man with hunger that may just match hers. It's a heady thing, to be wanted. For once, there is no question of first choice, last choice. This is potentially dangerous, and he doesn't care, all for her.
If she isn't allowed to touch him soon, she's sure she'll die.
Accordingly, she's just as greedily stripping him of armor, the clothing under it. Her hands run over his chest, somewhere between pawing and clawing. She's embarrassed to find herself keening, when her hand brushes, of all things, his knee.
She's pulling at him again, tugging him toward the bed. "Come here. I need- come to me. Come with me."
This is foolish. Not wrong in truth (for Judges are free to manage their own business, provided it holds no interference over matters of duty or dignity), but reckless enough to be damning when he realizes he’d not locked the door to these quarters, planning only on the comfort of his presence.
Though it is possible that is the very definition of what she asks for now, and what he cannot seem to draw himself away from in order to ensure absolute discretion.
Come here, she urges, and so he does: rough hands harsh across her shoulders, one knee resting just against the edge of the mattress, all keen intent rather than anything polished. Practiced. He kisses her as a man deprived, touch-starved to the bone, and seeking it out by way of heat without foresight. Unfocused, glancing contact. Anything at all provides.
A lifetime of cold metal, and all he wants is to forget it. Bury it beneath her touch. Her skin.
Jone is still dressed in the silken scrubs she's been relegated to for her recovery. She's forgotten them entirely, in favor of exploring every inch of Gabranth. The curve of his spine is wonderful and warm, and her fingers travel over it to find his arse (fantastic), the inside of his knee, his inner thigh. She needs to touch everything, and then taste it, if she'll ever tire of this kiss. Not that it seems remotely likely, moaning around his tongue as she is.
"Give me all of you," she says, panting, trying to regain her breath before she goes again. Her lips swipe and smear against his, nuzzling. "I want every inch."
He doesn’t know where to begin, other than his own needs— perhaps it is a mercy that she herself seems committed to the same, grasping at him as though he were something needing to be scaled for all the footholds her fingers find. It deepens that kiss, of course. The one that does not end for how each time it breaks one or the other between them moves to make it whole once more.
Yet here at least, something in him seems to give. A simple understanding that if he does not free her from her own clothing, they will pit themselves in grasping at one another without aim, delayed a thought as it is. His fingertips hook around the hem of her shirt, pulling rough— careful only not to scrape at her skin on her worser side. A process repeated as necessary, even should fabric tangle in his grasp.
They’ll find their way, even if it is ignoble in execution.
What surprises her is how gentle he is with her clothes, even as they are both scrabbling, hungry and full of want. Jone remembers herself, moving out of the flimsy pyjamas, revealing-- well, not very much of interest. On instinct, she presses her chest into his, hiding and giving both at once.
And then, finally, they are lying together on her bed. She throws the covers over them, less out of modesty than greed. One hand cards through his hair, reveling in it. Her skin feels electric, flush to his, finally allowed to touch however she pleases.
Her fingers draw nonsense patterns down his side, settling at his hip. She moves to kiss him again, this time lavishing attention over his pulse point, trying to leave a welt. Some sign she was here, that this happened, so it cannot be denied when he leaves, embarrassed or regretful.
(Some part of her hopes he won't regret it, but his resolute silence makes her doubt. Ultimately, it doesn't matter; in the moment, she has what she wants most in the world.)
She is left to her work, her attentions, however it pleases— his only responses painted in tense exhales or rough-hewn noises against her mouth, her jaw, her shoulder— erratic in pattern yet far from uninspired: at the heat of her hips he rests heavy across her, rutting for the friction of it, the same way he chases everything else. Coarse, insatiable, sharp even to the edges of his teeth, as though starved for everything she now offers.
And in truth, he has been.
Whatever she thinks of herself, or this, or the circumstance that holds him here, he does not know or consider in the slightest. She is wanted, there is nothing more to it that need be addressed in the eyes of a lonely, embittered man.
Jone has always been fascinated by bodies. As a fighter, she considers this important. Knowing how they break is, of course, a vocation. But to her own privately wandering mind, she likes to measure the reverse against it. How they hold pleasure, the shape of them, the feel. Just as causing pain is a powerful thing, giving ecstasy is just as strengthening.
She feels Gabranth writhing against her, and that is certainly a boost to her ego, but she wants more than scrabbling, now that she's had it. Jone moves, pushing him away, smiling through a messy nest of hair. She pulls it back as she kisses his chest, down to his hip, smearing bites and kisses along the way.
She's felt him, now she wants to hear him. Aside from moans, he's been so silent.
One bite to the inside of his thigh, and then all softness, taking the head of his cock in her mouth. If this doesn't get a yelp out of him, nothing will.
It does. Easily. Not so much a yelp as a vivid, hoarser intake of breath spit back out against the back of his teeth where they’re set, jaw worked tight. He doesn’t take to attention without fighting, apparently: nothing about him goes slack or arching beneath her the way someone else might— though the heat of her mouth and the press of her tongue remains damning— he makes himself sharper for it. Leans forward, catches— tangles tight— his fingers in his hair, scuffs blunted nails across her shoulders.
It’s a primal sort of patterning. Not dislike, nor the absence of want. The shape of need in a combative heart.
If he’d intended to ruin her efforts, he would do so without bucking keenly into it. Without panting, feeling out all he can get.
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A good sign, in truth, that heaviness of her grip across polished armor. Much like her ability to walk.
“And I’ve placed too much of my own reputation in your skill— your successes— to simply stand by without pressing you into proper conduct.” This, he says, knowing full well they’d played fool in some shoddy little pocket of a restaurant, shirking both duty and augustness alike for the briefest period of time.
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Why not rub her cheek in their face? They, who are just as proud. Pretending she's of fine breeding will only make her laugh, much less the others.
"How much of your reputation?" She leans her head in, conspiratorial. "You been talking me up?"
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Perhaps this is his own fault for encouraging her with a free, indulgent hand. That he views her as his equal, when so much of where they stand is based on matters of earned keep— which can always be rescinded.
Helms can be passed on. Refitted. Her lineage means nothing, her wealth only borrowed.
She must not forget this.
“I spoke praise of you, yes. Yet it is all true, and your commendation fast approaches.” Particularly if she stands now, if she walks, even by middling measures.
She leans in, and so does he— shadows deep beneath his eyes. The weight of long, dark eyelashes.
“Consider what that means carefully, for both our sakes.”
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Apparently so. She closes her eyes, leaning back. She has forgotten herself. How foolish she must look, to a man made of honor such as Gabranth. A bratty novice, distracted by finery, refusing advice that benefits him as much as her. He has given her so much, and what has she done?
She pauses there, ruminating on her failure. She knows how to keep her expression clear, to avoid the urge to throw herself at something, to cause harm. She knows where she is, and the creature she is expected to be. Perhaps one day, maybe, if she works very hard, someone will put a stake through her as she deserves.
In the meanwhile, she must uphold Gabranth's honor. She opens her eyes. "My apologies," she says, "you're right, as always. I have been... lax, always, but especially now."
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Which is fortunate. It means there is no weakness in the plating of her figurative armor. That she does not forget she walks in a palace with a thousand eyes.
This will save her, he is certain.
“There is nothing to forgive.” She will do better, and he will see her succeed. There will be no excess friction in her rise to authoritative power. To the Emperor's fully given trust. “I will send Drace to your side tonight, in my own stead, to ensure you are not treated unkindly.”
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Drace means well. She has nothing in common with Drace. She has nothing in common with Gabranth either, she's been so reminded, but at least she feels some modicum of safety in his presence.
Drace babysitting her would only feel like pity.
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He...does not blame Jone for this, he realizes. In her place, he would feel no different. No less weak while wounded in such a shadow, when already they are made to feel lesser to begin with. So she asks, and so he relents, dipping his own head in show of absolute deference to it.
Instead at last he sinks at her bedside, settling once more across the edge of the mattress as he favors as of late. One hand resting near her shoulder.
“Then I shall remain until you sleep.”
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There, her words are even-keeled, her expression placidly concentrated. She looks as she did when they were preparing for Videreyn, except perhaps more wan and clammy. This is business, her sworn task, and she will not forget again.
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“It is not trust.” It is, she has the right of it, but he refuses that logic in much the same way that he refuses to move. To withdraw from her side like the intrusion he is.
“I wish to remain, for myself. For mine own comfort.”
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No, people are not logical, and do not follow their own commands. Yet it stirs curiosity; Gabranth will not admit why he needs her, beyond comfort. Normally, it would be enough for her. Today, it is not. What a capricious thing she is.
"You are so discomfited by life that you need the company of one you do not trust?"
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Even so, his expression sinks when he sighs. It is difficult not to be terse in his own correction.
“I do trust you, Jone.” That fact was never in question, he thinks, knowing full well what slights against his own duties he's committed already in her presence. What more he would do if given the chance. “But it is not for trust— or lack thereof— that I refuse to leave your side.”
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But she isn't.
"Then what is it?"
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He leans forward without it present at all this time, still carrying the faint scent of metal polish and sweat, catching her mouth with his own without the decency of propriety or concern; always he has been a creature of impulse more than foresight, always does he make himself the enemy of decorum. Dignity.
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"Off- off with the armor. Now."
He has never been a creature of thought, perhaps, but she has never been one of half measures. Presented with a promise, she must have it in its entirety.
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He protests, though it does nothing to draw him any further from her side, or her hold on him, his fingers wrapped around her wrist in turn. Holding fast. He loses so much. He has always lost so much.
Instead he kisses her again, sharp edged and demanding, sunset catching through glass in her hair before he shuts his eyes to it, wholly focused in this.
As he focuses on everything that matters to him.
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"Let me- touch you." She kisses him. "Just let me touch you." She kisses him again, her teeth finding his lip, turning begging into demands.
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Or, were he so willing to examine it, his desire.
Her teeth snare his lip, scuff and scrape and bite, and somewhere without intending to he finds himself already working at the clasps of his gauntlets, the ties securing his cloak, his breastplate. Impatient, irritated, even.
But earnest, also.
Had she doubts about his investment, perhaps this will put them to bed.
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If she isn't allowed to touch him soon, she's sure she'll die.
Accordingly, she's just as greedily stripping him of armor, the clothing under it. Her hands run over his chest, somewhere between pawing and clawing. She's embarrassed to find herself keening, when her hand brushes, of all things, his knee.
She's pulling at him again, tugging him toward the bed. "Come here. I need- come to me. Come with me."
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Though it is possible that is the very definition of what she asks for now, and what he cannot seem to draw himself away from in order to ensure absolute discretion.
Come here, she urges, and so he does: rough hands harsh across her shoulders, one knee resting just against the edge of the mattress, all keen intent rather than anything polished. Practiced. He kisses her as a man deprived, touch-starved to the bone, and seeking it out by way of heat without foresight. Unfocused, glancing contact. Anything at all provides.
A lifetime of cold metal, and all he wants is to forget it. Bury it beneath her touch. Her skin.
For she is beautiful in that promise.
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"Give me all of you," she says, panting, trying to regain her breath before she goes again. Her lips swipe and smear against his, nuzzling. "I want every inch."
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Yet here at least, something in him seems to give. A simple understanding that if he does not free her from her own clothing, they will pit themselves in grasping at one another without aim, delayed a thought as it is. His fingertips hook around the hem of her shirt, pulling rough— careful only not to scrape at her skin on her worser side. A process repeated as necessary, even should fabric tangle in his grasp.
They’ll find their way, even if it is ignoble in execution.
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And then, finally, they are lying together on her bed. She throws the covers over them, less out of modesty than greed. One hand cards through his hair, reveling in it. Her skin feels electric, flush to his, finally allowed to touch however she pleases.
Her fingers draw nonsense patterns down his side, settling at his hip. She moves to kiss him again, this time lavishing attention over his pulse point, trying to leave a welt. Some sign she was here, that this happened, so it cannot be denied when he leaves, embarrassed or regretful.
(Some part of her hopes he won't regret it, but his resolute silence makes her doubt. Ultimately, it doesn't matter; in the moment, she has what she wants most in the world.)
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And in truth, he has been.
Whatever she thinks of herself, or this, or the circumstance that holds him here, he does not know or consider in the slightest. She is wanted, there is nothing more to it that need be addressed in the eyes of a lonely, embittered man.
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She feels Gabranth writhing against her, and that is certainly a boost to her ego, but she wants more than scrabbling, now that she's had it. Jone moves, pushing him away, smiling through a messy nest of hair. She pulls it back as she kisses his chest, down to his hip, smearing bites and kisses along the way.
She's felt him, now she wants to hear him. Aside from moans, he's been so silent.
One bite to the inside of his thigh, and then all softness, taking the head of his cock in her mouth. If this doesn't get a yelp out of him, nothing will.
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It’s a primal sort of patterning. Not dislike, nor the absence of want. The shape of need in a combative heart.
If he’d intended to ruin her efforts, he would do so without bucking keenly into it. Without panting, feeling out all he can get.
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battles you to the death in a fight to never sleep
glad (????) our insomnia synced up.
Go team crippling exhaustion
collapses.
perishes but strongly and coolly
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types tags from the wilderness
wilderness tags back.
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finds typo in my prior tag, promptly expires
resurrection scroll tyvm.
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