Jone's easy smile becomes a thin line, and her eyes narrow. "It's a gift," she grumbles in return, "take it as it is, yeah? It won't put me out."
He's done so much for her; this is the least she can do.
When she looks at him, she sees an odd fellow, yes, but very earnest. His sins are no greater, in her eyes, than any of the violent brutes she's encountered-- true nobles all. (None of them had killed a king, yes, or worked for the Empire, but she has no doubt they'd have considered it for enough coin. She cannot see coin motivating Noah, though.)
A hand to his shoulder. "Pay me back by pretending to laugh at my jokes."
“I could not promise you that before.” He says, mild as one heavy hand falls just atop her roughened knuckles.
“I cannot promise it now.”
But she knew this already, stubborn and willful as the blistering sun. Just as bothersome.
He’ll have to repay this gesture in some other way. And the idea has lurked within his mind well before this moment, of what he’s long desired to offer her. What he would have for her, just for the sake of keeping her safe.
“Yet were you to endeavor to make more amusing jokes....”
She sees what he's doing, and her smile goes crooked, as it always does when her happiness becomes deeper, more genuine. She puts her free hand on his other shoulder, pushing just slightly. Before them, Maric whinnies in an inhuman noise, not unlike a squirrel being dropped down a chimney.
"You joking with me, now?" She dips forward, pecking the tip of Noah's nose. "So you've been listening."
He is joking, in his own, strange way. Stiffened and stern, far from remarkable.
"I have always listened to you."
Noah does not seize the opportunity she provides so much as he leans into it, managing— albeit not deftly— to catch her mouth with his own when she withdraws from that glancing token of affection. Neither prolonged, nor deep, only present. Decisive.
A mirror to the man himself.
"I have not always enjoyed what I've heard in doing so," he murmurs, letting the words pool warm across her lips, "but I have always listened."
She's easy, but she knew that. He says nice things, things no one in their right mind has ever said to her before (things no one ever should, to be honest), and she leans into him, eyes soft. She kisses him back, lightly, briefly. He's beautiful, and she's-
Cold.
Cold, leathery skin brushes across the side of her face, sharp teeth less than an inch from her face. She lets go of Noah, skipping back a step. Maric whines again.
Gabranth does not laugh. As a rule, he does not smile. Basch fon Ronsenburg might argue the art's been lost altogether, but the truth is far less impressive, given that he simply lacks the reflex after years of disuse. Instead he substitutes with a soft exhale through his nose in withdrawal— one heavy hand catching the edge of Jone's cheek as she draws away, long reach faltering only a second later. The other hand finding the beast's taut, reptilian muzzle and giving it the mildest press, no different than what he would once have offered a particularly demanding chocobo.
"Ought I be jealous?" But her tone is joking, warm. A terribly fine thing, to see a gift well received, especially after the work she went through procuring the bastard.
Her hand finds him again, this time not settling-- an airy caress, fingers running behind his ear, through his hair. What a bloody picture he is. Her focus lingers on him far too long, smile lingering, refusing to quit.
"These are rare," she says. "You'll be a terror, with helm on."
A finer thing, to be given such a gift from someone that knows him well enough to understand what he needs— what soothes the tensity in his chest when it comes to perceptions in the broadest sense.
"I am a terror with you at my side." Far from a correction, his own expression relaxed in the rarest show of docility manageable. She combs her fingertips through his hair, and he leaves her to it, pale eyes watching her with almost unsettling clarity.
"I've gone too long alone. Forgotten too much of what I've lost."
She makes it easier, remembering what it was like.
She feels a little humbled, to receive such a confession from such a closed off man. Amazing what a good shag will do to you. (Her throat feels blocked by the weight of an inconvenient emotion. She ignores it.)
"And now you're trapped," she says, grinning. She gives his ear a light tug. "With you til the end, I am."
"Trapped is not the word I would use to describe it."
Humor pulls at the edge of his mouth. Colors the way he lets his head roll briefly with the tug of her fingertips. There's no difficulty to it, reaching across in that moment to steal one lone strip of jerky— lifting it in offering just beside Jone's cheek, ensuring she's struck by yet another puff of stale breath as jagged rows of teeth gently close around dried meat, tugging insistently until he lets go.
Jone goes very still, until the creature moves from her face. Just as promised, it doesn't bite, doesn't scratch. It's almost gentle, but she's not risking it. As soon as the teeth move away from her, she leans slightly to the side, making more room between them.
She pushes a hand out, poking him in the shoulder. "Arse. Starting to regret my anointed kindness."
She pushes at him, and he— in an uncharacteristic burst of movement— sets his own gauntleted fingertips to the back of her head, using it as leverage to (provided she opts not to fight it) draw her close to his chest. The softer hang of his cloak, rather than cold, jutting metal.
Much as he'd riled her, he wishes only to have her near.
She's stiff and still against him, but only for a moment. At some point, she's gained the ability to fold against his armor, feel soft and warm against all that cold metal. A quick movement, and she kisses him just under his ear, light and airy.
“Eternally.” He says, hand sliding higher into the tangled curtain of her hair, fingertips scrubbing against her scalp. It is a sigh of a sound, his voice.
A sincere sound.
"I am with you until the end of your years, Daughter of Denerim."
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no subject
He's done so much for her; this is the least she can do.
When she looks at him, she sees an odd fellow, yes, but very earnest. His sins are no greater, in her eyes, than any of the violent brutes she's encountered-- true nobles all. (None of them had killed a king, yes, or worked for the Empire, but she has no doubt they'd have considered it for enough coin. She cannot see coin motivating Noah, though.)
A hand to his shoulder. "Pay me back by pretending to laugh at my jokes."
no subject
“I cannot promise it now.”
But she knew this already, stubborn and willful as the blistering sun. Just as bothersome.
He’ll have to repay this gesture in some other way. And the idea has lurked within his mind well before this moment, of what he’s long desired to offer her. What he would have for her, just for the sake of keeping her safe.
“Yet were you to endeavor to make more amusing jokes....”
no subject
"You joking with me, now?" She dips forward, pecking the tip of Noah's nose. "So you've been listening."
no subject
"I have always listened to you."
Noah does not seize the opportunity she provides so much as he leans into it, managing— albeit not deftly— to catch her mouth with his own when she withdraws from that glancing token of affection. Neither prolonged, nor deep, only present. Decisive.
A mirror to the man himself.
"I have not always enjoyed what I've heard in doing so," he murmurs, letting the words pool warm across her lips, "but I have always listened."
no subject
Cold.
Cold, leathery skin brushes across the side of her face, sharp teeth less than an inch from her face. She lets go of Noah, skipping back a step. Maric whines again.
She laughs. "Reckon he don't like being ignored."
no subject
"Or he wishes to be included."
Which is, for obvious reasons, unacceptable.
no subject
Her hand finds him again, this time not settling-- an airy caress, fingers running behind his ear, through his hair. What a bloody picture he is. Her focus lingers on him far too long, smile lingering, refusing to quit.
"These are rare," she says. "You'll be a terror, with helm on."
no subject
"I am a terror with you at my side." Far from a correction, his own expression relaxed in the rarest show of docility manageable. She combs her fingertips through his hair, and he leaves her to it, pale eyes watching her with almost unsettling clarity.
"I've gone too long alone. Forgotten too much of what I've lost."
She makes it easier, remembering what it was like.
no subject
"And now you're trapped," she says, grinning. She gives his ear a light tug. "With you til the end, I am."
no subject
Humor pulls at the edge of his mouth. Colors the way he lets his head roll briefly with the tug of her fingertips. There's no difficulty to it, reaching across in that moment to steal one lone strip of jerky— lifting it in offering just beside Jone's cheek, ensuring she's struck by yet another puff of stale breath as jagged rows of teeth gently close around dried meat, tugging insistently until he lets go.
no subject
She pushes a hand out, poking him in the shoulder. "Arse. Starting to regret my anointed kindness."
no subject
Much as he'd riled her, he wishes only to have her near.
"And here I've been grateful for it."
no subject
"How grateful?"
no subject
A sincere sound.
"I am with you until the end of your years, Daughter of Denerim."