The spot he settles upon is dark and sheltered, drawn away from the road by some insignificant measure. Overhead, above packed dirt and trampled grass gone grey with time, gnarled branches break slightly, revealing a scattering of stars. If it wasn’t so grim a forest, it might be considered beautiful. Romantic.
Instead, it’s simply fitting.
They are, as Jone already understands, no glittering works of art. No gentler things, meant for goodness or warmth or softness— and what little they have of it, they’ve found within each other. Not without.
She barely has a moment to step into that clearing before he’s upon her, swift as a drawn blade: mouth to her own, teeth catching against her lip in a demanding swell of desire.
He'd figured-- this has happened before, though not with him-- she was being taken somewhere discrete to be screamed out. A poor employee, who mixed business with lust. A shite friend. A hag to be critiqued.
Instead, he has only that crushing passion, and she has to move herself so her bad arm isn't pinned at a rough angle. She should get it healed first, or some nonsense, but she's always liked fucking while injured. It heightens the difference between pleasure and pain. It leaves her giddy and tired, wicked with it.
She moans into his mouth, shameless in isolation. Her free hand finds his crotch, shamelessly kneading.
Her injuries are only faintly avoided, helmet left to tumble uselessly elsewhere as he marks along her mouth, her jaw, her throat down into the collar of her gambison— fingers digging harshly at her waist, and all too quick to unravel the bindings there, unwilling to cede yet another second to restraint.
Pale petals fall like leaves in the moonlight, shed eagerly for his carelessness. If he cannot prove her worthy, he can— at the very least— prove himself less than that.
"Take off the armor," she says, laughing, harsh and unwomanly. A freeing thing, to be away from the eyes of others, to be herself. She likes the fine games and the eyes of spectators, the paltry favors she garners. But this is far, far better, all the more real.
"Take it off, or you're crush me. And- couldn't think of a better way to die, love, but-" more laughter.
And all at once, she is herself again. The apprehension forgotten, the sallowness of a fearful stare lost; her laugh is sharp and clear, and it washes over him before her demand (request?) takes root within his mind. Before he grants her one last reddened mark across her sunburned skin, just inside her collar, unmistakable in its origin.
—and then he’s withdrawn, pulled away to tug at his armor clasps while his breathing rushes onward in quickened rhythms, as impatient and feverish as the rest of him, painted with fallen petals and faint bands of pollen.
He has no intention of causing her undue harm, though some part of his own blood still runs high at the thought. As though their love is a challenge to be met, to be fought for.
She watches him undress with hungry eyes, taking in every movement, every muscle, every twitch. She catches a flower falling from him and, selfish, puts it back on her hair. How terribly smug she feels just then. Others may laugh, but this man is hers, and he loves her, and she loves him. She intends to hold onto this for as long as she can; she doubts she will ever have such joy again.
When the armor is off, her one hand finds the ties of his undershirt, and begins to tug. "I want more of you," she says, "All."
He is glad to see it replaced, that single bloom. Different than the last, but no less in symbolism or purpose.
A sentiment forgotten the moment her hand is upon him, digging and drawing coarse fabric away from scarred skin— yielding quickly to it, lending his own effort by way of reaching high to disentangle when he pulls dark knit over his head, ruining the last of that floral gift.
It is traded, in a sense. For beneath those heavy layers, the only thing that remains is a single locket, strung through with a bright green ribbon. Silver glinting in the moonlight against the bow of his notched collarbone.
He is so beautiful, this wild thing that many would see simplified. Certainly, he wears the raiment of a tamed man, but Jone loves him for his excess, his anger, his passion. All match hers, so far as she sees it. She could melt into it.
She touches the silly little locket. I love you.
She's unbuttoning her gambeson, slow and one-handed. The seams of her pants come next. "You'll have to hold me up," she says, "against a tree? Oh, my back will be a wreck..."
Who is he to deny her the satisfaction of lingering pain? It is— by his own skewed estimation— hardly different from the bruising or marks that cling after a sparring match, a battle, and they have made themselves strangers to neither.
And while it may be dangerous for him to walk the narrow line between harm and want, he trusts her now, fully: she is strong enough to be his match— to curb the worst of his gnashing teeth and ravenous hatred— if he runs too far, hurts her too much, she’ll put an end to it as she cares to.
Or she’ll return it.
Impatience thrives within him, however. Where she works one-handed to free herself, he settles in close to finish what she has begun, bracing her body while the rest of her clothing is drawn away with little mercy— and from there, he gathers her into his arms, strong enough to leverage her muscle. Her height.
As he laces her legs about his waist, his face buries itself within the heart of her chest, mouthing at her, biting at her. Affectionate and yet untamed, perhaps no less gentle than the bark digging in between her shoulder blades.
And bare to him, there is no barrier between the friction he provides. Rutting slow, yet desiring more.
She lets her head knock back into the tree. Her good arm loops around his shoulder casually, lightly. "Fuck," she says, letting it sink in. This slow pace is somewhat new, and she finds she likes it just as well as when he's heedless and quick.
As has become a habit for her, she lets him know. "S'good," she murmurs into the air-- fresh with woodland scent, and only slightly spoilt by the city nearby. "Keep going like this."
She feels that twinge of guilt, that she's doing nothing for him in return, but she'll get to it. Tall as they both are, she hasn't the reach.
He asks for nothing in turn, surely she knows this. Nothing more than the way she clings furiously to him, the rise of her breath until it catches in her throat— culminating in faint cursing or the hoarser sound of his muttered name. To be wanted.
To be wanted.
That’s what he strives for, the goal he chases down to the marrow, sinking into it with the endpoint of every heavy roll of his hips. Inspiring a flicker of vivid electricity, sparking a stutter in the pacing he's working to maintain. One turned to his— their— advantage as he uses that moment of faltering to bear himself against her, edging in against slick heat, taut muscle.
A sound, not quite his name, though she makes a true effort for it. Her hips rock with his. "Yes," she says, "slow, I like this-"
The rest is, predictably, swearing, but it's of a different species than their usual heated intensity. Her words are stretched by this new pace, her voice more of a whine. Praise comes not as encouragement, but appreciation.
Jone has considered a few ways to discuss this and talked herself out of every one. She spends a few extended hours in a bookshop instead, and the following evening she works late to make up for it.
In their room, Noah will find a small book called The Pleasing of Thine Wyf, complete with illustrations, some salacious, some medical. The only part Jone has personally edited is a small sentence near the beginning, which she only circled:
Noah is, by most estimations, a straightforward brute of a man at heart: what keeps him in check is the strictness of the standard he lives by, working as a dignified facade above the untamed facets of his own personality. His own imitation of the man he could never be. The one he sees when he stares deep into the mirror.
Even so, for all his bluntness and mediocrity, it requires no great amount of thought to know who left that book upon their conjoined beds. Or why.
When she next returns, she’ll find him sitting in some candle-lit corner of their room, pages folded between his fingers, a look of grim determination etched deep into his shadowed face.
Jone worked late, until everyone in the training yard was satisfied, and she was ready for bed. Worked hard enough until she'd nearly forgot what she'd left for Noah in a fit of bravado.
Looking over him now, she regrets it. Draping herself over his broad shoulders, she murmurs, "weren't an insult, I swear."
A kiss to his ear. Even embarrassed, she can't stop touching him.
"Instruction." He murmurs absently in return, clearly still focused fully on the text before him, though it leaves him somewhat cold to her touch. The matter of attention eclipsing the rest, for he is not fully finished studying the text in its entirety. "I understand its purpose."
There is always clarity in being told how to improve. He turns a page, and it hisses between rough fingertips.
With that surrender, at last she earns the entirety of his attention— bedding shifts beneath his own heavy weight, the density of corded muscle easily displacing all else as he turns to look at her more fully, sprawled there at his side in a miserable span.
A sight to his eyes no less.
"Did you study this book as well?"
It is not a dismissal of either wants or concerns, he simply has his own questions to pursue.
"Tried," Jone mutters. She reaches for a basket of ripening figs she kept by the bed, a favor for some side labor she's already forgot. "Not good with letters. But this one seemed right on it, so far as I could tell."
“Then it is a mutual effort.” He concludes, watching her fingertips catch against the bowl, hearing the softer scuff of it, dull and low in the silence between speech. “And a mutual desire.”
The book is set aside. Set between them. Closed. He chases it only with a confession, one palm resting near to her shoulder.
She cuts a section off the fig, eating it slowly. "You don't have to," she murmurs, avoiding his eyes. They settle, inevitably, on his hand. "Guess the book is just... my ropes."
“Your...ropes.” He repeats, a lack of comprehension clear as daylight (of which, in the dying evening hours, there is none), a picture cut from the shadow running heavy along his own pinched brow. It has the unintended effect of making those unsettling hazel eyes all the more striking.
And unlike hers in this moment, his do not linger on her hand, or the sliver of fruit pinched between notched fingertips— nor her shoulder, nor the bed.
It is her face he watches. His stare unmistakably settled on her as she snares that meager offering between her teeth. Piercing and sharp, Noah fon Ronsenburg, a hawk even in quiet spaces.
The hand nearest to her is leaned upon more generously. It draws him closer.
She can feel him closing in, but what's he on about? She has a few guesses, but refuses to commit to any. Instead, the fig is balanced on the meeting of collarbones, and she moves her hands behind her back in a familiar fashion.\
He feels the fool for not grasping it sooner. Even so, clarification gives no rise to embarrassment. No bitter flicker of shame or indignation. His strengths have always lied in action— in putting momentum to whatever expectations have been laid before him.
And there is, in that respect, little difference between a blade drawn, and a mouth pressed hot against her skin.
Remembering there the passage circled before the rest of it, first and foremost.
“It is your fascination.” He determines, voice lower than a hum. And there is movement when he rises, using that hand as a midpoint— leveraging himself by it to rise, and subsequently sink, over her. A shadow in the dark.
His mouth finds its way to the fig she’s abandoned. His hands nesting on either side of her hips.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
no subject
Instead, it’s simply fitting.
They are, as Jone already understands, no glittering works of art. No gentler things, meant for goodness or warmth or softness— and what little they have of it, they’ve found within each other. Not without.
She barely has a moment to step into that clearing before he’s upon her, swift as a drawn blade: mouth to her own, teeth catching against her lip in a demanding swell of desire.
Everything he’d withheld before now, let go.
no subject
He'd figured-- this has happened before, though not with him-- she was being taken somewhere discrete to be screamed out. A poor employee, who mixed business with lust. A shite friend. A hag to be critiqued.
Instead, he has only that crushing passion, and she has to move herself so her bad arm isn't pinned at a rough angle. She should get it healed first, or some nonsense, but she's always liked fucking while injured. It heightens the difference between pleasure and pain. It leaves her giddy and tired, wicked with it.
She moans into his mouth, shameless in isolation. Her free hand finds his crotch, shamelessly kneading.
no subject
Her injuries are only faintly avoided, helmet left to tumble uselessly elsewhere as he marks along her mouth, her jaw, her throat down into the collar of her gambison— fingers digging harshly at her waist, and all too quick to unravel the bindings there, unwilling to cede yet another second to restraint.
Pale petals fall like leaves in the moonlight, shed eagerly for his carelessness. If he cannot prove her worthy, he can— at the very least— prove himself less than that.
no subject
"Take it off, or you're crush me. And- couldn't think of a better way to die, love, but-" more laughter.
no subject
—and then he’s withdrawn, pulled away to tug at his armor clasps while his breathing rushes onward in quickened rhythms, as impatient and feverish as the rest of him, painted with fallen petals and faint bands of pollen.
He has no intention of causing her undue harm, though some part of his own blood still runs high at the thought. As though their love is a challenge to be met, to be fought for.
Yet it is love all the same.
no subject
When the armor is off, her one hand finds the ties of his undershirt, and begins to tug. "I want more of you," she says, "All."
no subject
A sentiment forgotten the moment her hand is upon him, digging and drawing coarse fabric away from scarred skin— yielding quickly to it, lending his own effort by way of reaching high to disentangle when he pulls dark knit over his head, ruining the last of that floral gift.
It is traded, in a sense. For beneath those heavy layers, the only thing that remains is a single locket, strung through with a bright green ribbon. Silver glinting in the moonlight against the bow of his notched collarbone.
The favor he'd fought for, above all else.
no subject
She touches the silly little locket. I love you.
She's unbuttoning her gambeson, slow and one-handed. The seams of her pants come next. "You'll have to hold me up," she says, "against a tree? Oh, my back will be a wreck..."
She sounds more excited than anything.
no subject
And while it may be dangerous for him to walk the narrow line between harm and want, he trusts her now, fully: she is strong enough to be his match— to curb the worst of his gnashing teeth and ravenous hatred— if he runs too far, hurts her too much, she’ll put an end to it as she cares to.
Or she’ll return it.
Impatience thrives within him, however. Where she works one-handed to free herself, he settles in close to finish what she has begun, bracing her body while the rest of her clothing is drawn away with little mercy— and from there, he gathers her into his arms, strong enough to leverage her muscle. Her height.
As he laces her legs about his waist, his face buries itself within the heart of her chest, mouthing at her, biting at her. Affectionate and yet untamed, perhaps no less gentle than the bark digging in between her shoulder blades.
And bare to him, there is no barrier between the friction he provides. Rutting slow, yet desiring more.
no subject
As has become a habit for her, she lets him know. "S'good," she murmurs into the air-- fresh with woodland scent, and only slightly spoilt by the city nearby. "Keep going like this."
She feels that twinge of guilt, that she's doing nothing for him in return, but she'll get to it. Tall as they both are, she hasn't the reach.
no subject
To be wanted.
That’s what he strives for, the goal he chases down to the marrow, sinking into it with the endpoint of every heavy roll of his hips. Inspiring a flicker of vivid electricity, sparking a stutter in the pacing he's working to maintain. One turned to his— their— advantage as he uses that moment of faltering to bear himself against her, edging in against slick heat, taut muscle.
no subject
The rest is, predictably, swearing, but it's of a different species than their usual heated intensity. Her words are stretched by this new pace, her voice more of a whine. Praise comes not as encouragement, but appreciation.
Her good hand rakes across his spine.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
sends u these tags and lowers myself into my fuckin grave
gets shovel.
no subject
In their room, Noah will find a small book called The Pleasing of Thine Wyf, complete with illustrations, some salacious, some medical. The only part Jone has personally edited is a small sentence near the beginning, which she only circled:
She wel lyk to be kyss'd all aboute.
no subject
Even so, for all his bluntness and mediocrity, it requires no great amount of thought to know who left that book upon their conjoined beds. Or why.
When she next returns, she’ll find him sitting in some candle-lit corner of their room, pages folded between his fingers, a look of grim determination etched deep into his shadowed face.
no subject
Looking over him now, she regrets it. Draping herself over his broad shoulders, she murmurs, "weren't an insult, I swear."
A kiss to his ear. Even embarrassed, she can't stop touching him.
no subject
There is always clarity in being told how to improve. He turns a page, and it hisses between rough fingertips.
"I have dissatisfied you."
no subject
She puts her mouth over her hand. Terrible. "Mm, this were a bad idea."
no subject
A sight to his eyes no less.
"Did you study this book as well?"
It is not a dismissal of either wants or concerns, he simply has his own questions to pursue.
no subject
no subject
The book is set aside. Set between them. Closed. He chases it only with a confession, one palm resting near to her shoulder.
“I have not yet finished it.”
no subject
no subject
And unlike hers in this moment, his do not linger on her hand, or the sliver of fruit pinched between notched fingertips— nor her shoulder, nor the bed.
It is her face he watches. His stare unmistakably settled on her as she snares that meager offering between her teeth. Piercing and sharp, Noah fon Ronsenburg, a hawk even in quiet spaces.
The hand nearest to her is leaned upon more generously. It draws him closer.
no subject
"Ropes. Ribbons. You know."
no subject
And there is, in that respect, little difference between a blade drawn, and a mouth pressed hot against her skin.
Remembering there the passage circled before the rest of it, first and foremost.
“It is your fascination.” He determines, voice lower than a hum. And there is movement when he rises, using that hand as a midpoint— leveraging himself by it to rise, and subsequently sink, over her. A shadow in the dark.
His mouth finds its way to the fig she’s abandoned. His hands nesting on either side of her hips.
“Your weakness.”
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
spends 800 years writing u a literal novel I'm sorry
but love it tho.
(no subject)
(no subject)
do you like how I took my time doing this so you'd be too sleepy to rush to give me tagbacks >]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)