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.
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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.
no subject
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.