Jone leans forward, moving herself back into his lap. It's slow, and she teases him with her hand instead of settling on his cock immediately. She wants to see pleasure on his face.
A kiss to the side of his mouth. "You get away with so much for being handsome," she says, practically purring. Another kiss, another tug on his cock. "Do you know that? You should know that."
“Enough.” He grouses, all teeth against the edge of her kiss, and made more so by the way she grips at him, dragging an unsteady breath from the very base of his throat— almost the edge of a sound, but not quite.
“I do not wish to be teased.”
Were his voice more iron-bound, that might work to paint his complaint seem more sincere. Or at the very least, serious.
Instead, what remains is the noise of hitching breath— his features gone unbearably tense in tangled patterns— and the impatient way he grips her in turn, as if aching for something just out of reach.
"Didn't mean to tease you," she says, close enough that it's almost whispered into his skin. "Was a compliment."
She says this as she finally lowers herself down onto him, her breath hitching in turn. She's made more than a few delays getting to this point, she knows, and they were all out of a stupid need to see him squirm. She did herself no favors, either; once she finally has that first spike of pure pleasure running through her, she finds herself terribly sensitive to it.
She had meant to watch his face while she did this, but ends up hiding in the crook of Gabranth's neck. A curse is muffled there as she tastes his skin, her hips rocking slowly.
The way she murmurs against his skin, intoxicating in the surest sense: trust between them has long since been a given, and even the longing need for comfort during the course of her recovery— the way he buckled at the first opportunity to set himself beside her— stands as testament to that unshakable reality. He longs for her. Her attention, her comforts. It is a danger, no doubt, but there is a beauty to it all that she cannot perceive. Cannot appreciate.
She means much to him, he realizes.
Of course, the only thing that finds him when he opens his mouth to both pardon her for prior statements and assert the simplicity of his affections is a single, thready groan. Useless. Unwound. He scuffs his face across her cheek, her ear, the cascade of her hair— he fits his teeth to the mark he'd left before, canting up into the movement she provides, all slick, friction-borne heat. More drunk from it than offered wine.
Jone's hands find the back of his head, and she holds him close, elbows digging into the blush back of the settee. She finds herself panting almost immediately, gasping at the wave of feeling he's set in her. She put off anything for herself-- a stupid move she may have to rectify next time, if there is one-- and it's paying off like their first encounter. Everything is hazy with sharp pleasure, the feeling of him holding her close, the movement of his hips, the feeling of his teeth.
Her breaths form into his name, repeated into his skin. She'd planned on saying something filthy to see his reaction, but instead she's left with flowery nothings. All I need you and please don't stop. If she could be distracted enough to feel embarrassment, she would be.
A reprise, yet not so much of one that he’s made useless by the sharp plunge of sensation, her grip so warm as to be feverish, her voice— every pattern it weaves— only driving him further into both her and her arms, a tangle of shadows and movement in dim light, for he’d let the sun set in her presence and never once spared it thought in the aftermath.
What does he care. Why would he care. He observes her with his roaming touch, with every rock of his wanting hips and hungry heart, and this time— thankfully— he is grounded enough to continue long enough to listen to the litany she speaks. He cannot last eternally, no, but—
Perhaps long enough, he thinks, even as his nails draw marks across her spine.
It's a bright burst of feeling, one after another, and unlike last time, she can think through the want of it. Not much, but... more. She feels more herself, than someone desperately worrying over what Gabranth thinks, who he thinks of in moments like these.
It's not that she doesn't care. It's that she can forget caring, and that's the person she'd prefer to be, given the choice.
She usually prefers to wait until after, but now? She snakes one hand down between her thighs, positioning herself at a better angle. The hand at Gabranth's head falls to his shoulder, scraping along it with blunt nails, as a long whine escapes her.
This suits. This more than suits, it is better than the drive of a blade in hand, better than the prickling rush of adrenaline in his veins, the sound of bone and sinew torn asunder.
He has no promise of it, beyond the sound of a voice gone hoarse from gasping, from growling, from groaning— he fights to keep pace, bucking rough and harsh as he can sense the span of his own restraint coming untethered at the edges. It is inelegant, coarse as the scars he bears. Frenetic, and shamelessly so.
What need have they for softness, for sweetness? It has no home in them.
Jone is left nuzzling into Gabranth's shoulder, making a mess of it. Alternatively biting and kissing, she thinks herself in love with the smell of his skin, the sweat he's worked up, the hoarse sound of his voice.
The only words she can manage anymore is a litany of, "please, please."
Her hips grind against his, responding to his furious pace. In this moment, she knows what it is to be utterly wanted. Her earlier insecurities wither, at least for a little while.
"More, please."
But she's never been able to take what she has with contentment, however grand.
Neither has he, in truth. Ever straining for more and more— not out of greed, but restlessness, a closed fist borne from insecurity.
He despises words, they are so often empty promises, yet hers sing of their own accord, ringing in his ears like a prayer spurring him to madness. The bitter smell of sweat clinging to the air, familiar and comforting to a creature meant for battle. He is no less enamored. No less lost.
More, in fact— as his attention flickers white-hot at the seams— knuckles tight with a biting grip, senses surging into a sudden, blissful peak: like footing lost at the edge of a ravine, the pull of its gravity is merciless, quick and knifing. He fixes a hand to her shoulder, locking her against him, grip gone cruel for his own satisfaction in climax—
Jone can tell what's happening, and attends to it. She moves her hand, so both claw at his sides; her head turns further to the side, to allow him more space to bite.
It's always a little thrill, for her. When she's with someone at this stage, she knows entirely what her job is, and the world is utterly simple. She did well, and she's to keep that up.
Still, it makes her shiver. The heat of it, and Gabranth's tenuous grip on his control, his stuttering hips and the roughness he proceeds with. She's always liked that. It's so much more interesting.
An old litany reemerges, "I have you, I do, I won't let go-" As though she's any choice in the matter, but it's always a grand thing, to feel wanted
More than she knows. Or perhaps just as she knows, considering the parallels between them; to say he cannot understand what she murmurs against him in that prolonged moment of blissful undoing is a lie— he is wholly, thoroughly aware, down to the marrow of his bones, and made softer by it. But it is a distant sound compared to her. Her touch and her hold and her warmth, above all else.
Someone else might concern themselves with her satisfaction. Whether or not it had been met, whether or not she feels anything close to enjoyment in practice, or how the exchange leaves her.
Gabranth is no such creature.
Instead he collapses, sated, against the settee and her hold both, his eyes lidded beneath dark lashes, his chest quick in the rise and fall of steadying breaths.
And if Jone feels a little less alone, a little more safe in that moment, well. It's stupid. But it's no one's business but hers.
Jone kisses Gabranth's chin before settling her head on his shoulder. She moves a bit, turning to the side again, so she's spread across him, head on one shoulder, legs across his lap. One arm snakes between him and the settee, holding him close, while she gets to the business of finishing herself off.
It takes longer than last time, and she's left shivering against him, nosing at his jaw, the scent of him. She doesn't say anything, because this isn't for him. It's only just not embarrassing, and she wonders if her having to do this will hurt his pride? But it doesn't really matter, does it. She has to, so she is.
Not for a moment does he feel shamed by it. That is the point of this, is it not? He holds no concept of shared, flawless union— imagines no picturesque challenge of united undoing: he ruts until he cannot and she does the same and so long as both are contented with it, there is no need to let acidity creep in like a poison. It does not belong.
Instead he leaves his eyes closed, breathing slow and deep, listening to the sound of her easement— the hitch and catch of her ecstasy, pleasure-numbed fingertips still cinched tight across her hips, unwilling to free her even after she finishes. Unwilling and unwanting, he has never cared to let go.
“Stay, if you wish.” He murmurs after far too long left idle, his mouth scuffed uselessly across her jaw. Drowned in silence and comfort alike.
She's left boneless in his embrace, still quivering slightly as the aftershock runs through her. This was good. Better than she deserved. She can't decide if she owes him, or the reverse-- and maybe she ought to let the scores lie fallen, if he'll let her stay.
"I'd like that." She's already nuzzling into the crook of his neck, enjoying the feel of his skin anew. "A fine host, you are. Comfortable bed and a reason to sleep in. I'd carry you to bed, if I felt my legs were working."
Too dry to be a joke, arid by both tone and passive expression— none would mistake it as such, yet beneath the surface there’s an undeniable sort of amusement that makes itself known. Uncharacteristic of him, yes, but him, at heart. More than metal trappings and a stern hand could ever be. “But it is appreciated all the same.”
Of course, for him to offer the same for Jone in turn, he would need clarity and control that currently lies absent in listless muscle. Otherwise strong. Otherwise unshakable. What a strange thing it is, to be made pleasantly useless.
“There is clothing enough to spare, should you wish it.”
Though...perhaps she does not. And that thought has him shifting just slightly in focus, glancing away, as if she is not already unclothed before him.
Jone only realizes it's a (very dry, desert dry) joke at the last moment. A little huff of laughter escapes her, less at the content of the jest and more at Gabranth making it at all. She kisses his shoulder one last time-- now entirely red from bites and sucking kisses, all the way to his neck-- and begins slowly to move away from him.
"Oh, are you the sort that likes having his shirts worn by someone else?" She's known the sort, and the thought is very endearing. Endearing enough that she misses Gabranth's wandering gaze.
“I cannot say.” He says, squinting up at her from his perch (just as thoroughly marked as she, now) in no rush to rise or remove himself, aside from a minute effort made to tuck himself away and lace his trousers halfway once more.
He is not making a joke, this time.
“I would need to bear witness to it to know for certain.” Lax, when he stands at last to follow her, gesturing towards a dresser comprised of deep, dark wood, polished to a near mirror shine. There, is what he seems to mean, though he doesn't bother to speak it aloud.
"Are you-?" She cocks her head to the side. He's a hard man to read, at times. If he had any patience for gambling, he'd be a grand card player. "You want me to try...?"
It's absolutely fucking absurd, the flutter she gets in her chest at the thought of him taking an interest. It gives her enough energy to stand, to walk and rifle through his clothes drawer. She doesn't have the patience for the dark leather she finds, and searches for something made of cloth. It's dark cloth, invariably, but she's told dark colors make her hair stand out. Maybe he'll like that?
Well, he gave her permission to try. She pulls on a shirt, clearly meant to be tucked in tighter under other layers. Jone, having no patience for that, lets the thing crumple loosely about her. She can't keep from smiling when she looks him over, after pulling the tangle of her hair from the neck.
He is preoccupied as she works; runs water in the attached washroom and uses a damp cloth to diligently work away spit and sweat, tending to the last of his own undressing as he goes. Fastidious, military— or perhaps simply practiced, it hardly matters. In the end, he re-emerges in the dark to find her fitted and content in something too slack across her own muscular form.
He sucks in a faint breath through his nose, a slight more reactive than objective...or thoughtful.
“It would seem you are correct.” Concluded as he moves to her side, dour in form yet not in tone, to hunt for clothing of his own.
To be impulsive in their earlier ventures is fine, but he’ll not impose on her during sleep.
He's hard to read, yes, but she's starting to get it. Listen to the way he breathes. That's where everything is, isn't it? The way he sucks in breath when he sees her-- that's something.
She smiles faintly at the thought, her hands combing fingers through her hair. She'll need a proper comb later, but for now, this will keep it from getting utterly unruly in her sleep.
And she does intend to sleep here, at least a little. He said she could, sort of. He implied she could. Fuck what he said, actually, she's going to do it anyway. Maybe they can go a second round. That would be a perfect ending to the day, she thinks, though her mood may be unusually high thanks to getting a proper tumble in.
She leans forward to kiss the cool shell of his ear, more playful than anything else. "Don't pick anything I can't run my hands under," she whispers, before trotting off to find his bed. He might listen. He probably won't, but it'd be nice if he did.
It catches him wholly unawares, the kiss and her demand alike; he opens his mouth to say something, closes it, and then opens it once more— before simply exhaling once, and pressing the drawers shut without ceremony, rather than rifling through them for something else to wear.
Whatever her mood might settle on, should she decide to take up touch in the dead of night, he would only dirty yet another set of clothes. Another process to be sorted and undone.
His bed is almost laughably expansive when she finds it, crisp and tidy. Perhaps a strange thing to consider him sleeping alone at it’s very edge, but if this is so, he hardly seems to notice as he lifts the covers and fits himself to the barest side, far enough from the middle to be painfully practical.
Should the Emperor or his sons have need of him, this makes it ever easier to rise quickly and efficiently.
Jone finds him in the dark as soon as she can. Hands snake around his middle, feeling his body close to hers. She's pleased he didn't pick out a shirt. He doesn't need one. If he can get away with it, he shouldn't ever wear one.
She slots himself close to his back, legs tangling with his. Another gentle kiss to his ear, and a promise.
"I won't stay long. I just-..." She had decided to explain herself, and now it feels very hollow. Would she be so hesitant, if he spoke more? She's suddenly certain she wouldn't be, and that spurs her on. She won't be boxed in by his habits. "I need this."
She hides her face in the nape of his neck, breathing him in.
Who is he to deny such need? How can he claim to be any different? Theirs is an addiction, a weakness— that desire for closeness when all it serves is their own foolish undoing.
But it is a pleasant vice, and he is certain in his ability to keep tight to his own duties. To snap his teeth at her own, should she falter.
He reaches behind himself to fit a rough palm along the edge of her hip— or her thigh— he isn’t quite sure of it, and finds he does not care to know regardless. It is her. That is all that matters.
“Do not drink so deeply as to fall into ruin, and I shall not care.”
It is meant as a comfort, his assurance. But she will take it as she cares to, he knows.
His answer pushes a weight down on her, sticking in her throat, her breaths momentarily stopped. What if she'd like him to care? Even a little. She's not asking for some grand romance, just... Jone lets out her sigh.
It makes the bed feel uncomfortable, her presence unwelcome. She can't stand to stay as long as she'd liked. After a minute, two, Jone rises, moving past Gabranth's form to leave the bed entirely. She doesn't move the blankets back onto him. He can do that himself.
She shrugs out of his shirt, folding it carefully and leaving it on a nearby table, perhaps uncharacteristically quiet in her actions. Would Gabranth notice? Would he care? She's being stupid, she knows, but she can't help it.
She wanders through his rooms for the shower, taking what time she's saving to clean herself before leaving. It's the dead of night. She has time.
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A kiss to the side of his mouth. "You get away with so much for being handsome," she says, practically purring. Another kiss, another tug on his cock. "Do you know that? You should know that."
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“I do not wish to be teased.”
Were his voice more iron-bound, that might work to paint his complaint seem more sincere. Or at the very least, serious.
Instead, what remains is the noise of hitching breath— his features gone unbearably tense in tangled patterns— and the impatient way he grips her in turn, as if aching for something just out of reach.
In truth, he is.
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She says this as she finally lowers herself down onto him, her breath hitching in turn. She's made more than a few delays getting to this point, she knows, and they were all out of a stupid need to see him squirm. She did herself no favors, either; once she finally has that first spike of pure pleasure running through her, she finds herself terribly sensitive to it.
She had meant to watch his face while she did this, but ends up hiding in the crook of Gabranth's neck. A curse is muffled there as she tastes his skin, her hips rocking slowly.
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She means much to him, he realizes.
Of course, the only thing that finds him when he opens his mouth to both pardon her for prior statements and assert the simplicity of his affections is a single, thready groan. Useless. Unwound. He scuffs his face across her cheek, her ear, the cascade of her hair— he fits his teeth to the mark he'd left before, canting up into the movement she provides, all slick, friction-borne heat. More drunk from it than offered wine.
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Her breaths form into his name, repeated into his skin. She'd planned on saying something filthy to see his reaction, but instead she's left with flowery nothings. All I need you and please don't stop. If she could be distracted enough to feel embarrassment, she would be.
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What does he care. Why would he care. He observes her with his roaming touch, with every rock of his wanting hips and hungry heart, and this time— thankfully— he is grounded enough to continue long enough to listen to the litany she speaks. He cannot last eternally, no, but—
Perhaps long enough, he thinks, even as his nails draw marks across her spine.
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It's not that she doesn't care. It's that she can forget caring, and that's the person she'd prefer to be, given the choice.
She usually prefers to wait until after, but now? She snakes one hand down between her thighs, positioning herself at a better angle. The hand at Gabranth's head falls to his shoulder, scraping along it with blunt nails, as a long whine escapes her.
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He has no promise of it, beyond the sound of a voice gone hoarse from gasping, from growling, from groaning— he fights to keep pace, bucking rough and harsh as he can sense the span of his own restraint coming untethered at the edges. It is inelegant, coarse as the scars he bears. Frenetic, and shamelessly so.
What need have they for softness, for sweetness? It has no home in them.
He wants only her.
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The only words she can manage anymore is a litany of, "please, please."
Her hips grind against his, responding to his furious pace. In this moment, she knows what it is to be utterly wanted. Her earlier insecurities wither, at least for a little while.
"More, please."
But she's never been able to take what she has with contentment, however grand.
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He despises words, they are so often empty promises, yet hers sing of their own accord, ringing in his ears like a prayer spurring him to madness. The bitter smell of sweat clinging to the air, familiar and comforting to a creature meant for battle. He is no less enamored. No less lost.
More, in fact— as his attention flickers white-hot at the seams— knuckles tight with a biting grip, senses surging into a sudden, blissful peak: like footing lost at the edge of a ravine, the pull of its gravity is merciless, quick and knifing. He fixes a hand to her shoulder, locking her against him, grip gone cruel for his own satisfaction in climax—
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It's always a little thrill, for her. When she's with someone at this stage, she knows entirely what her job is, and the world is utterly simple. She did well, and she's to keep that up.
Still, it makes her shiver. The heat of it, and Gabranth's tenuous grip on his control, his stuttering hips and the roughness he proceeds with. She's always liked that. It's so much more interesting.
An old litany reemerges, "I have you, I do, I won't let go-" As though she's any choice in the matter, but it's always a grand thing, to feel wanted
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Someone else might concern themselves with her satisfaction. Whether or not it had been met, whether or not she feels anything close to enjoyment in practice, or how the exchange leaves her.
Gabranth is no such creature.
Instead he collapses, sated, against the settee and her hold both, his eyes lidded beneath dark lashes, his chest quick in the rise and fall of steadying breaths.
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Jone kisses Gabranth's chin before settling her head on his shoulder. She moves a bit, turning to the side again, so she's spread across him, head on one shoulder, legs across his lap. One arm snakes between him and the settee, holding him close, while she gets to the business of finishing herself off.
It takes longer than last time, and she's left shivering against him, nosing at his jaw, the scent of him. She doesn't say anything, because this isn't for him. It's only just not embarrassing, and she wonders if her having to do this will hurt his pride? But it doesn't really matter, does it. She has to, so she is.
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Instead he leaves his eyes closed, breathing slow and deep, listening to the sound of her easement— the hitch and catch of her ecstasy, pleasure-numbed fingertips still cinched tight across her hips, unwilling to free her even after she finishes. Unwilling and unwanting, he has never cared to let go.
“Stay, if you wish.” He murmurs after far too long left idle, his mouth scuffed uselessly across her jaw. Drowned in silence and comfort alike.
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"I'd like that." She's already nuzzling into the crook of his neck, enjoying the feel of his skin anew. "A fine host, you are. Comfortable bed and a reason to sleep in. I'd carry you to bed, if I felt my legs were working."
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Too dry to be a joke, arid by both tone and passive expression— none would mistake it as such, yet beneath the surface there’s an undeniable sort of amusement that makes itself known. Uncharacteristic of him, yes, but him, at heart. More than metal trappings and a stern hand could ever be. “But it is appreciated all the same.”
Of course, for him to offer the same for Jone in turn, he would need clarity and control that currently lies absent in listless muscle. Otherwise strong. Otherwise unshakable. What a strange thing it is, to be made pleasantly useless.
“There is clothing enough to spare, should you wish it.”
Though...perhaps she does not. And that thought has him shifting just slightly in focus, glancing away, as if she is not already unclothed before him.
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"Oh, are you the sort that likes having his shirts worn by someone else?" She's known the sort, and the thought is very endearing. Endearing enough that she misses Gabranth's wandering gaze.
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He is not making a joke, this time.
“I would need to bear witness to it to know for certain.” Lax, when he stands at last to follow her, gesturing towards a dresser comprised of deep, dark wood, polished to a near mirror shine. There, is what he seems to mean, though he doesn't bother to speak it aloud.
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It's absolutely fucking absurd, the flutter she gets in her chest at the thought of him taking an interest. It gives her enough energy to stand, to walk and rifle through his clothes drawer. She doesn't have the patience for the dark leather she finds, and searches for something made of cloth. It's dark cloth, invariably, but she's told dark colors make her hair stand out. Maybe he'll like that?
Well, he gave her permission to try. She pulls on a shirt, clearly meant to be tucked in tighter under other layers. Jone, having no patience for that, lets the thing crumple loosely about her. She can't keep from smiling when she looks him over, after pulling the tangle of her hair from the neck.
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He sucks in a faint breath through his nose, a slight more reactive than objective...or thoughtful.
“It would seem you are correct.” Concluded as he moves to her side, dour in form yet not in tone, to hunt for clothing of his own.
To be impulsive in their earlier ventures is fine, but he’ll not impose on her during sleep.
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She smiles faintly at the thought, her hands combing fingers through her hair. She'll need a proper comb later, but for now, this will keep it from getting utterly unruly in her sleep.
And she does intend to sleep here, at least a little. He said she could, sort of. He implied she could. Fuck what he said, actually, she's going to do it anyway. Maybe they can go a second round. That would be a perfect ending to the day, she thinks, though her mood may be unusually high thanks to getting a proper tumble in.
She leans forward to kiss the cool shell of his ear, more playful than anything else. "Don't pick anything I can't run my hands under," she whispers, before trotting off to find his bed. He might listen. He probably won't, but it'd be nice if he did.
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Whatever her mood might settle on, should she decide to take up touch in the dead of night, he would only dirty yet another set of clothes. Another process to be sorted and undone.
His bed is almost laughably expansive when she finds it, crisp and tidy. Perhaps a strange thing to consider him sleeping alone at it’s very edge, but if this is so, he hardly seems to notice as he lifts the covers and fits himself to the barest side, far enough from the middle to be painfully practical.
Should the Emperor or his sons have need of him, this makes it ever easier to rise quickly and efficiently.
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She slots himself close to his back, legs tangling with his. Another gentle kiss to his ear, and a promise.
"I won't stay long. I just-..." She had decided to explain herself, and now it feels very hollow. Would she be so hesitant, if he spoke more? She's suddenly certain she wouldn't be, and that spurs her on. She won't be boxed in by his habits. "I need this."
She hides her face in the nape of his neck, breathing him in.
types tags from the wilderness
But it is a pleasant vice, and he is certain in his ability to keep tight to his own duties. To snap his teeth at her own, should she falter.
He reaches behind himself to fit a rough palm along the edge of her hip— or her thigh— he isn’t quite sure of it, and finds he does not care to know regardless. It is her. That is all that matters.
“Do not drink so deeply as to fall into ruin, and I shall not care.”
It is meant as a comfort, his assurance. But she will take it as she cares to, he knows.
wilderness tags back.
It makes the bed feel uncomfortable, her presence unwelcome. She can't stand to stay as long as she'd liked. After a minute, two, Jone rises, moving past Gabranth's form to leave the bed entirely. She doesn't move the blankets back onto him. He can do that himself.
She shrugs out of his shirt, folding it carefully and leaving it on a nearby table, perhaps uncharacteristically quiet in her actions. Would Gabranth notice? Would he care? She's being stupid, she knows, but she can't help it.
She wanders through his rooms for the shower, taking what time she's saving to clean herself before leaving. It's the dead of night. She has time.
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finds typo in my prior tag, promptly expires
resurrection scroll tyvm.
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