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.
Yet frequently his judgments are too harsh. Too merciless. He fears what softness might do to her, particularly now, when she works so hard to establish herself as a creature of loyalty, rather than humanity. Fallibility. It was believed she nearly laid down her life for the empire, what would be said of her if they instead took to thinking it was for Gabranth’s sake alone?
But even so, even knowing this, he finds himself restless in her absence.
In such a state, is it his weakness, or hers?
He finds her as she finishes the last of her washing, stare flickering in its draw, rather than lingering; he’ll not be so coarse-cut, even in confidence.
“You are unhappy.” He concludes, fitting himself to a doorway that shuts discreetly behind him.
Jone is toweling herself off, hair wrapped in whatever towels Gabranth chooses to use in his suite. She is again wearing his things. What a pattern to continue.
She smiles when she sees him, though it's a bitter thing, regret found easily in her eyes. Yes, she is unhappy. He's either a better judge of character than she thought, or he cares more. Either are meaningless, though, when he has made his stance clear.
She pulls the towel from her head, and slowly begins to pull a brush through it. "Not enough to fall into ruin."
“Do not bite at me so.” Growled as only he can manage, in a tone that speaks of both irritation and affection in equal measure— though to a stranger it might read only as the former. “You know why indulgence is imperilment itself. You cannot ask me to be so heartless as to endanger you for the sake of my own satisfaction, nor blame me for the circumstances that encircle us both.”
His eyes meet hers as she works, frown etched deep across his features. He does not withdraw, nor does he move.
Jone narrows her eyes. For him to take so much out of such a small statement-- she is offended and concern in equal measure. Invariably, concern wins out. She is a terrible creature for the rigors ahead, perhaps, but she does care for him.
"You think everything I say is mockery," she murmurs darkly. "Have you ever considered we have the same aims, or do you find me completely faithless? I may not take joy in every aspect of my duty, but neither do you. I will fulfill it, I-"
Her face screws up in a sneer. This is pointless. "At least let me put on some bloody pants if we're to argue." She means to walk past him.
His hand finds her arm as she moves past, unwilling to grant that request. Ever the immovable object, and it makes him wonder at times if she truly desires his companionship. The sting of something too sharp to be held.
"I've no intention of arguing." Low spoken, sincere in effort. Perhaps she endeavors to see it as such, yet knowing the both of them—
"You interpret my words no differently in turn. Always as burrs beneath your skin, rather than as balm. How am I to soothe such injury with hands so ill-suited to mending?"
"I-" She does not like being caught. Don't be near people when your blood is up. When anyone's blood is up. She tries to move away from him without making the situation worse. A difficult bargain.
"I would never expect that from you," she says, and her words are harsh. Sincere, but harsh. "I don't want anything you can't give."
It means she wants less and less all the time, but that's her chosen fate. She'll weather it.
“What I give in private, and what I give elsewhere is— “ he cuts himself off only for his own inability to chase where impulsive thought leads him. Words are always slower. Eloquence more difficult. Accuracy...distant.
“It is a separate matter, Jone.”
His hold on her stays tensed, harsh enough to bruise. It seems he can only focus on one process at a time. “I meant only to tease you.”
“I do not know how those words found you, but If you are so wounded, then I can only assume I’ve done poorly.”
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."
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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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Yet frequently his judgments are too harsh. Too merciless. He fears what softness might do to her, particularly now, when she works so hard to establish herself as a creature of loyalty, rather than humanity. Fallibility. It was believed she nearly laid down her life for the empire, what would be said of her if they instead took to thinking it was for Gabranth’s sake alone?
But even so, even knowing this, he finds himself restless in her absence.
In such a state, is it his weakness, or hers?
He finds her as she finishes the last of her washing, stare flickering in its draw, rather than lingering; he’ll not be so coarse-cut, even in confidence.
“You are unhappy.” He concludes, fitting himself to a doorway that shuts discreetly behind him.
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She smiles when she sees him, though it's a bitter thing, regret found easily in her eyes. Yes, she is unhappy. He's either a better judge of character than she thought, or he cares more. Either are meaningless, though, when he has made his stance clear.
She pulls the towel from her head, and slowly begins to pull a brush through it. "Not enough to fall into ruin."
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His eyes meet hers as she works, frown etched deep across his features. He does not withdraw, nor does he move.
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"You think everything I say is mockery," she murmurs darkly. "Have you ever considered we have the same aims, or do you find me completely faithless? I may not take joy in every aspect of my duty, but neither do you. I will fulfill it, I-"
Her face screws up in a sneer. This is pointless. "At least let me put on some bloody pants if we're to argue." She means to walk past him.
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"I've no intention of arguing." Low spoken, sincere in effort. Perhaps she endeavors to see it as such, yet knowing the both of them—
"You interpret my words no differently in turn. Always as burrs beneath your skin, rather than as balm. How am I to soothe such injury with hands so ill-suited to mending?"
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"I would never expect that from you," she says, and her words are harsh. Sincere, but harsh. "I don't want anything you can't give."
It means she wants less and less all the time, but that's her chosen fate. She'll weather it.
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“It is a separate matter, Jone.”
His hold on her stays tensed, harsh enough to bruise. It seems he can only focus on one process at a time. “I meant only to tease you.”
“I do not know how those words found you, but If you are so wounded, then I can only assume I’ve done poorly.”
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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."
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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.
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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."
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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."
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"I wasn't always big and strong," she says, gentle, careful. "When I wasn't, others were, and they weren't kind."
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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."
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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."
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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?"
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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."
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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.”
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"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."
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“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.
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"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."
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