He can feel the drag of her blunted nails, spurring fresh lines across his skin. No one will see them, no one will know of what transpired here, or how they fit their bodies together as though they are the exact map of one another— driven to fill the emptier spaces, the painful gaps, the welling of feverish need. An eternity to find her.
A short while to have her.
He intends to make it count.
Slow, he stays true to that word; slow, when he bears himself into her fully; slow, when he grits out a groan from between set teeth, trembling from lingering restraint as he resumes indulging the way she rocks against him, his breathing a shuddering thing, thready and lost.
Her good hand finds the junction of her thighs, leaving Gabranth to balance her in totality. Some part of her thinks he'll enjoy that, the power over the situation. The rest is too lost in her own pleasured satisfaction, slowly rutting with him against a tree.
"Harder," she whispers into his ear, "but not faster."
What he sates himself with is more than the control she offers freely— but it would be a lie to claim some part of him does not revel in it, does not hunger and strain for the sight of her pinned and lost to it, brow knitted tight, bruised muscle straining as she works herself towards oblivion at his mercy. Or he at hers.
And there in the shallows of that ember-hot rise of sensation, it proves more difficult than ever to exercise control. Restraint. There is no mistaking the way he shivers with it, the slow snap of every thrust that forces her further back against biting bark. Sharp, no doubt clawing into her skin. Were it not for the time they’ve spent together already over the last few weeks, this— his teeth at her throat, working over those marks, fingertips curled under the curvature of her hips— would be a withered performance by comparison.
They've come so far, and Noah knows her body better. He knows where to his, what to touch, how to make her shiver under his hands. The pain of her injuries, her back into a rough old tree, only speeds her further on.
A whimper becomes his name, before she becomes undone in his hands. She barely keeps the sound small, biting into his neck to hide the worst of it as she strains herself, back arched.
"My beautiful Noah," she murmurs. "Have what you like, love, you've finished me."
Instantaneous, almost, that switch— from the moment that she comes undone, fitting her mouth to his throat in a way that heats his blood, from the way she grants permission— how his demeanor is so quick to shift, as vivid and heady as the snap of lost temperament in battle: a veering turn from restraint to fire-blooded lust, thrusting unbridled, fragments of bark and fallen branch scattering to the forest floor. Her back will be a mess for this, scratched as deep and soundly as the rest of her battle-won injuries.
He bites, and he pants, and he moans and he ruts— and it is no shorter affair this time, before he eventually stumbles, slips, drowns for falling into his own climax. Left shuddering violently against her, locket cold where it snaps against her skin.
She lets out one long, slow moan, an uninterrupted syllable. He's so grand, the feel and the heat of him, overwhelming. Waves of further pleasure spur her on, until she's clinging to him, legs and arm. She nuzzles her face into a sweaty shoulder.
All she can say, panting heavily, is his name, over and over. Noah, Noah, my Noah...
He chases the sound of his name with his own mouth, drawing the breath from her lips in a merciless kiss.
When it breaks, the pattern of his breathing is slower, yet unsteady with listless satisfaction. The exertion of being briefly disentangled from the world itself for a flicker of a beat. He kisses her jaw, flush with heat and reddened from too much sun, and leaves his face there to linger when at last he speaks.
“You are all I have chosen. All that I would take for myself.” Shallow and soft, devoid of fervor and fury, Noah’s voice is a surprisingly quiet thing in this moment.
Intended only for her.
“If this world thinks you lesser for all your divergences, then I damn their blindness and their folly.”
Jone buries her head in the crook of his neck, unable to stand what he says otherwise. It isn't bad. It's just the thing you lie around at night, alone and young, imagining someone will say to you. She never prepared for this feeling, of being so loved, so precious in someone else's eyes. She doesn't know how to tolerate it.
She feels so light.
"I love you," she says, pressed into his side. "I haven't your fine words, but I love you, and I always shall."
Even if ruin meets them, even if bitterness parts them, he will always have a part of her heart. The largest part.
Doting confessions given in the wilds, still pinned against a crooked tree. His and hers, weighted both with gravity— and a poorer sense of timing.
Yet for them, it suits.
And in the wake of it his expression wavers, the faintest fragment of a past no longer within reach. Eased by her promise. By the insignificant hang of an inexpensive curio slung around his neck with simple ribbon.
He lifts her into his arms, rather than leaving her braced against that tree, granting one last kiss across her temple before setting her down and retrieving her shed gambeson. Speaking only once he fits it round her shoulders, knuckles pressed against its hem.
"I love you, Jone of Denerim. Do not dare to forget this."
Slowly, inexpertly, she fits her clothing back on, around the mess of her arm. It now blooms with thundering pain, from such rough treatment. She doesn't regret it. She feels as though she could rip a tree in half, if she so liked.
She doesn't. She fits her clothes in place, if sloppy and sweaty.
All the while, she looks at him with utter adoration. "Could almost ask you to carry me back," she says, a sloppy half-grin on her face. "Did a number on me."
"You need not ask." He counters, seeing to the last of his own regalia and its myriad ties and fasteners. The last at his wrist, fiddled with by coarse leather gloves until the ties sit flush, and his helmeted stare rests upon her, as eyeless and unfaltering as ever.
She may fight him if she wishes. His intent is clear enough when he strides ever closer, crushing white petals underfoot with heavy steps— hands quick to outstretch, reaching for her uninjured arm first.
Her laughter spikes, ugly and throaty, but no less joyful. She hides her face in his plate, and whispers dirty things they may do if they return to their room hastily.
"Have you ever wanted me with my hands tied back? At your mercy, utterly."
It is torment, given the distance they’ve yet to travel.
It is also not undesired, how she seems to brighten in his arms, troublesome as she is. The sound of his voice within the helm is...locked with tensity, just at the edges. Something perhaps undetectable to someone that does not know him, yet bright as day to Jone herself, who has seen him without guard or armor acting as a bulwark against the rise of easily stoked heat.
Somewhere against her side, one of his fingers twitches.
“Your arms cannot be tied behind your back until they are healed, Daughter of Denerim.”
Jone cradles her broken arm against his armor, feeling the seething pain, and ignoring it in favor of getting Gabranth worked up. What a fantastic power that is, to pull him along with just her words. What a grand thing, to be a temptation.
"If you tied it securely," she murmurs, "it'd be greater than a sling. Or perhaps you'd rather a tie across my throat?"
It is not a lingering pause, nor an overwhelming one, but something clearly directly sparked by her own mischievous digging; his defenses weak against the pressure she provides— both grating and desired all at once.
How dare she remind him of how he’d sought to hurt her so sincerely.
How dare she— and yet it was his own fingertips that’ve reached for her throat again since in devious, thoughtless wanting. Can he blame her for such depraved suggestion, when he himself set that standard?
No. And therein lies acceptance of it, however grudging.
“Continue speaking thusly and we shall not make it back.”
He does indeed notice, though that helm shifts only a little. His grip far from faltering as he holds her there at the edge of the forest, armor smelling of staler sweat.
The perfume he would trade for no other; a testament to their entanglement.
“What I desire is to keep this hidden no longer.”
Perhaps he does still dwell on Beth’s own wording. The accusation that he craved discretion out of shame.
She's sure Gabranth can feel her go stiff. It takes a moment to make up her mind, though fear still lingers. "Alright," she says, making motions that she'd like to be let down. "No more secrets. I'm not embarrassed of you, love, I never have been."
Something about the tail end of her promise stings. A nail scratching at his skin beneath the armor, the unintended catch of teeth against his tongue— that’s all he can compare it to. Discomfort. He had never been ashamed of her, but to guard oneself, and to keep such truths locked away....
How narrow is the difference?
Her heels touch the earth, he lets her down gently, minding the scuff of her broken arm across his armor and all its jutting contours.
“Tell her for me. The girl.” He mutters low, like an animal sinking its head in self-abnegation.
“She is free to speak as she cares to. I’ll hound her for it no longer.”
Jone suspects her bandage needs changing. What was once a blotted brown has blossomed red. She grimaces slightly. The mages will fix it properly tomorrow, when they're not worrying about nobles and patrons.
"Beth, you mean?" Jone sidles closer to Gabranth, as close as she can get without being underfoot. "Your obsession with that girl, I don't understand. But I'll tell her."
sends u these tags and lowers myself into my fuckin grave
“It is not— ” obstinance blooms, his exhale sharp as the edge of his sword.
His jaw locks, when he feels slighted. Denied. And Jone is right: ever since that night in the maze, it has been locked still— though now he acts without resentment, there is no letting go. Resolution, unforced, might yet ease that trouble.
But Gabranth has not managed resolution with his own blood and kin. So.
“Thank you.” The heaviness of his footing is precise enough that he doesn’t trample Jone as they stride ever closer to Kirkwall, arm extended in faint offering.
Only after a beat longer does he add, “Hold your head high, lest I tip it for you.”
Jone, unsure how else to properly react, sticks her tongue out at him. But she takes his arm and they walk together through the streets, an odd pair; one proud, one broken.
She allows no anxiety to show on her face, a thing more potent than shame.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
A short while to have her.
He intends to make it count.
Slow, he stays true to that word; slow, when he bears himself into her fully; slow, when he grits out a groan from between set teeth, trembling from lingering restraint as he resumes indulging the way she rocks against him, his breathing a shuddering thing, thready and lost.
no subject
"Harder," she whispers into his ear, "but not faster."
no subject
And there in the shallows of that ember-hot rise of sensation, it proves more difficult than ever to exercise control. Restraint. There is no mistaking the way he shivers with it, the slow snap of every thrust that forces her further back against biting bark. Sharp, no doubt clawing into her skin. Were it not for the time they’ve spent together already over the last few weeks, this— his teeth at her throat, working over those marks, fingertips curled under the curvature of her hips— would be a withered performance by comparison.
But they’ve come far, now.
no subject
A whimper becomes his name, before she becomes undone in his hands. She barely keeps the sound small, biting into his neck to hide the worst of it as she strains herself, back arched.
"My beautiful Noah," she murmurs. "Have what you like, love, you've finished me."
no subject
He bites, and he pants, and he moans and he ruts— and it is no shorter affair this time, before he eventually stumbles, slips, drowns for falling into his own climax. Left shuddering violently against her, locket cold where it snaps against her skin.
no subject
All she can say, panting heavily, is his name, over and over. Noah, Noah, my Noah...
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When it breaks, the pattern of his breathing is slower, yet unsteady with listless satisfaction. The exertion of being briefly disentangled from the world itself for a flicker of a beat. He kisses her jaw, flush with heat and reddened from too much sun, and leaves his face there to linger when at last he speaks.
“You are all I have chosen. All that I would take for myself.” Shallow and soft, devoid of fervor and fury, Noah’s voice is a surprisingly quiet thing in this moment.
Intended only for her.
“If this world thinks you lesser for all your divergences, then I damn their blindness and their folly.”
It is not for their sake that he fights.
no subject
She feels so light.
"I love you," she says, pressed into his side. "I haven't your fine words, but I love you, and I always shall."
Even if ruin meets them, even if bitterness parts them, he will always have a part of her heart. The largest part.
no subject
Yet for them, it suits.
And in the wake of it his expression wavers, the faintest fragment of a past no longer within reach. Eased by her promise. By the insignificant hang of an inexpensive curio slung around his neck with simple ribbon.
He lifts her into his arms, rather than leaving her braced against that tree, granting one last kiss across her temple before setting her down and retrieving her shed gambeson. Speaking only once he fits it round her shoulders, knuckles pressed against its hem.
"I love you, Jone of Denerim. Do not dare to forget this."
no subject
Slowly, inexpertly, she fits her clothing back on, around the mess of her arm. It now blooms with thundering pain, from such rough treatment. She doesn't regret it. She feels as though she could rip a tree in half, if she so liked.
She doesn't. She fits her clothes in place, if sloppy and sweaty.
All the while, she looks at him with utter adoration. "Could almost ask you to carry me back," she says, a sloppy half-grin on her face. "Did a number on me."
no subject
She may fight him if she wishes. His intent is clear enough when he strides ever closer, crushing white petals underfoot with heavy steps— hands quick to outstretch, reaching for her uninjured arm first.
And, if she fails to deter him, her legs next.
no subject
"Have you ever wanted me with my hands tied back? At your mercy, utterly."
no subject
It is also not undesired, how she seems to brighten in his arms, troublesome as she is. The sound of his voice within the helm is...locked with tensity, just at the edges. Something perhaps undetectable to someone that does not know him, yet bright as day to Jone herself, who has seen him without guard or armor acting as a bulwark against the rise of easily stoked heat.
Somewhere against her side, one of his fingers twitches.
“Your arms cannot be tied behind your back until they are healed, Daughter of Denerim.”
That is not a no.
no subject
"If you tied it securely," she murmurs, "it'd be greater than a sling. Or perhaps you'd rather a tie across my throat?"
no subject
It is not a lingering pause, nor an overwhelming one, but something clearly directly sparked by her own mischievous digging; his defenses weak against the pressure she provides— both grating and desired all at once.
How dare she remind him of how he’d sought to hurt her so sincerely.
How dare she— and yet it was his own fingertips that’ve reached for her throat again since in devious, thoughtless wanting. Can he blame her for such depraved suggestion, when he himself set that standard?
No. And therein lies acceptance of it, however grudging.
“Continue speaking thusly and we shall not make it back.”
no subject
A kiss pressed to his help. She hopes he notices.
no subject
The perfume he would trade for no other; a testament to their entanglement.
“What I desire is to keep this hidden no longer.”
Perhaps he does still dwell on Beth’s own wording. The accusation that he craved discretion out of shame.
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no subject
How narrow is the difference?
Her heels touch the earth, he lets her down gently, minding the scuff of her broken arm across his armor and all its jutting contours.
“Tell her for me. The girl.” He mutters low, like an animal sinking its head in self-abnegation.
“She is free to speak as she cares to. I’ll hound her for it no longer.”
no subject
"Beth, you mean?" Jone sidles closer to Gabranth, as close as she can get without being underfoot. "Your obsession with that girl, I don't understand. But I'll tell her."
sends u these tags and lowers myself into my fuckin grave
His jaw locks, when he feels slighted. Denied. And Jone is right: ever since that night in the maze, it has been locked still— though now he acts without resentment, there is no letting go. Resolution, unforced, might yet ease that trouble.
But Gabranth has not managed resolution with his own blood and kin. So.
“Thank you.” The heaviness of his footing is precise enough that he doesn’t trample Jone as they stride ever closer to Kirkwall, arm extended in faint offering.
Only after a beat longer does he add, “Hold your head high, lest I tip it for you.”
It is not, in any sense, an acute demand.
gets shovel.
She allows no anxiety to show on her face, a thing more potent than shame.