[ What was she doing in France? He has to wonder, something to ponder another time when he is not to remember her face. For now it isn't to be thought upon, fingers curling tighter around his up and he stands that little bit taller. ]
It is just as miserable in France? God, no. She does not rain nearly as much, her winters do not linger through spring and summer. [ A man of the world, a man of two revolutions, but a Frenchman at heart. Always and forever. ] She is kissed by the sun and perfumed by the smell of fresh flowers.
[ He misses the sun, he realizes then, the warmth of it. Shining days are never quite as warm as they should be in England, the threat of rain always standing off to the edge of the sky. ]
[ Her eyebrows go up, as he talks, tilting her smile down into her lips as she presses them against her fingers. It's good to see someone with the same sentiment. ]
I heard the sun in the south is something to be seen. [ From artists and poets at least. They trickle through these doors more than almost anyone else. Forever in love with someone woman they cannot have. ] I never thought to miss summer, but I miss feeling at least somewhat dry, having the warmth on my skin. [ Granted if she spent her time in more noble houses perhaps she would not feel that way. But here? In the muck and the dirt, it feels sunk into her skin -- and especially now. Seems fitting to so much misery, maybe.
Another mouthful, another grimace for it and her head tilts, tips. ] Listen to us, anyone would think we were homesick.
[ He laughs, low and a little hollow, cup rising to drain more of his drink. Another mouthful to fill in those empty spaces, another to warm his weary bones.
Could he deny it? No, not in the slightest. Just by the sound of them they sound like the forlorn, torn and denied that which brought them both such joy. The warmth of home. ]
What a pair we must make.
[ A knight and the rebel queen, commiserating together on such a miserable night. ]
What of your home, mademoiselle? Tell me of the suns of India. I would know of their beauty.
[ This is a child's game, pretending they are other than what they are but -- no this is exactly what they are. So the game is that, if the world had been fair, if the world had been kind, if it had been right. If the truth had anything to do with it, they might never have to forget each other. But as it stands, there was no going back now. ]
No one said eternity made men clever. [ sharp little dig for as much him as her, but it's kindly meant. ] It could not be more different to here, or France, or any of the countries this side of the continent. [ Tips her cup, watching the almost gone amber liquid catch the light. Could be sun glittering for all their present dreaming, and suddenly the drink is stomachable, a fair price to pay for drinking light. ] It will build and build with heat, until it's cloying in the back of your throat, there is no relief at night either that way. Summers are generous that way. [ The cup is set down, she leans forward with her hand to where he lingers and ghosts the space between them, a drawn up line, to his pulse. ] Sometimes you think you can feel it in your blood itself, it settles itself into each breath. Then just when you think you can take no more of it - it breaks. Then it will storm, for hours the rain will pour down in torrents before just as suddenly, it is gone. It goes like this for all of summer.
[ Her hand withdraws, eyes on him. Warm, warm, warm, with the summers she speaks of. ] It is not forgiving, rather the heat can be maddening at times.
[ A game, a truly foolish game but it is what it is and he knows the truth of it. Let them play, he thinks, for this moment before the world remembers how to breathe, before the foundations around them groan their last before collapsing. He is allowed that much, is he not? To have to stand testament to a friend's sure to be death. See him punished for this if that is what must happen, he will bare it will no complaint - but allow him this opportunity to breathe, to exist beyond the gorget that adorns his neck.
The man to stand in place of the knight.
He listens close, attention caught firmly between those slender fingers. It is a grand picture she weaves, unrelenting heat pressed down hard upon it's people. Imitating suddenly, perhaps, by her fingers drawing line up his pulse. ( A terrible man thinks himself in danger, counts the opportunity and watches it slip by. ) Warm, truly warm, summers to break the unwary and the weak. No wonder she stands so strong, burns so bright. ]
Much like it's queen. [ A smile hooked to one side, jest and compliment all in one. ] It sounds like paradise compared to the piercing cold of England.
[ She can't quite dignify that with an answer straight away - flattering is part of the course of royalty especially, for it to mean very much to her. She snatches her drink up again, draining it dry before she takes up the bottle again to fill her cup, and as she speaks tips it a little to ask if he wanted more himself.
She might not be completely immune to it, as she pretends most of the time. It's ridiculous, but that's the point. Watching him again, carefully. ]
It feels like it some times. Then I remember how my clothes would stick to me at times, I wanted nothing but to throw myself into the rain for some relief, and I do have to wonder who has the right of it. [ But she misses it all the same, doesn't need to say it. That much is plain. ] And you, Marquis, is it true all frenchmen are so charming, or are you particularly gifted?
[ He flatters as easily as he breathes - the ways of courts, nobility, and royals ingrained deep in his bones. He has a lifetime of placating them, speaking the right words at the right moments in the right ways. Not to say he does not mean what he says, no no, Lafayette does not speak empty words - especially not around a woman such as she. ]
Perhaps this damn English rain has some use after all. [ He would not have thought earlier this evening he would be sitting in a bar alone with the rebel queen doing his best not to picture cloths slick against her skin. It makes him thankful for her question, dragging him swift from his thoughts. ]
Not all of my countrymen can be as charming as I, but some come close. No, mademoiselle, I am unique amongst my fellows. [ As, morbidly, he still has his head. ]
[ Here she is, pouring him out the last of this bottle. Comfortable in his company, bemused with him as far as she'd admit. Maybe otherwise, but she's always slow to it. Things are hard won from her at the best of times. Just maybe not quite so after she's finished this glass however. See how she felt about him then. ]
That you are. [ her eyes crinkle with the smile, the bottle set down empty and she shakes her head. She means, she studies her enemies carefully, seen him from the other end of the gun to know how good his shot is - she means he's nothing she finds hard to look at. ] A man of many skills I hear told often enough. [ Crinkles, imaging him, as someone else maybe. The blackwater stripped them of much, most especially the people they were before. ] It must be useful.
[ The swill does it's work well, spreading through his veins like a slow but fierce fire. Perhaps it is what makes this easier - no, he cannot say he has not admired the woman on reputation alone and meeting her in person... well, rumors of her beauty have not done her enough justice. Nevertheless she holds more from him than most enemies should, respect and admiration.
He holds up his cup, motioning towards her with eyebrows raised. ] As are you. [ Unique, not hard to look upon, more pleasant company than he dares to admit. ] Oui, I am as expertly skilled off the battlefield as I am on.
[ It's the heat she described, settling in her throat, working its way against her cheeks, her lips. Leant in to talk with him so easily. True, she never saw them so much as an enemy as something simply in her way, at worst fools of their own pride. She never thought very much one what they are like as people in this regard - and with him, it's easy. Likeable, and he tries to be of course - but this comfortable in another way. A mutuality to missing, that she feels understood in. ]
We are not exactly... usual company. [ Her lips press together, that numbness is coming up comfortably again. Content and warm. Her teeth catch against her bottom lip, pressing in sharp on words decorum would say otherwise about. She's all predator, because she always has been just different. Slow, encroaching. She measures too often, too carefully. Even like this when there's heat crawling up her spine. ] Careful, Marquis, I might ask what kind of woman you think I am. [ The girls that had worked here, told her how he talked. ]
[ He laughs again, short, drink joining his lips to swallow even more of the amber liquid. Both burning and numbness mixing together as time progresses. ]
I think you are not a woman to be trifled with, a desert rose that is as beautiful as she is dangerous. [ Honeyed words wholly meant, slipping from his lips as effortless as if he were to simply breathe. ] A woman not so easily charmed by flattery and suggestion.
[ Not that he is attempting to charm her, no, he would not dare. Would he? The warmth makes him reckless, more so than normal, entertaining idle thoughts of baiting a tiger with slabs of meat. Dangerous thoughts to be true, belonging to a man of younger years. Yet they sit nevertheless, a small prickle on the edge of his thoughts. ]
[ It appeals - as a woman, if not a queen. A queen would never be turned by such things, and she never had - after all, she had been married as soon as it had been time. Her mind taken up by ruling, and then all that came afterwards. She expects something decent from him after all, flattering her, and yes, yes any other time, she would raise her eyebrow at him, shift her shoulders into something clearly dismissive for what she never had much time for. But they're not here for any other time, so if just this once, she gives into the pleased feeling that settles in her belly. Right now she is as he describes her, no more, no less, and he is no more than the honey on his tongue.
An old bad habit, that when she had decided she wanted something, that she became fixed on it. It had no lessened in the years, the matter now is more what she intends about it. ]
Better than my poets. [ Not charmed easily, and yes, yes never to be trifled with except when she lets someone do so. Her terms, her battlefields, twisting them to suit her. ] I suppose if that's true - I need not warn you of thorns. [ Since he'd worked that all by himself already. ] I would hate for you to slice yourself on them. [ Soft, as she hangs the warning in front of him, like a promise more than a threat. He will, of course he will. ]
[ He leans upon the table with a laugh upon his lips, he might trip directly into her claws now and he would not entirely mind. The drink as seeped deep into his veins, his bones, brought a numbness to the world outside of the brothel.
And Lafayette, ah, he shares her old habit in a way; not one to give up a pursuit once began. ]
I do not fear thorns, mademoiselle. [ Reckless, truly, he will see himself bleed if he continues he knows. ] There is no pleasure without a little pain.
[ But it's a little too quick this way. Watching him like she's considering something this time. Comes to a choice and decides on it, and pushes her body up quickly. Pushing her fingers against the bench top to straighten herself. She pulls back, turning quick on her heel, as she heads towards the bar itself. Air thick with all sorts of things between them now, especially the warmth of liquor - and that might just be what this is. Chasing a forgotten summer in the bottom of a glass, or in company. ] I believe I promised you your fill of drink.
[ She doesn't look at what she snatches in her quick fingers. Turning to lean against the bar with it held in her hand, elbows propped up to support her weight. It'll do her for the time being, whatever it is. There's no table between them, now, and as she leans, picture of being at her own leisure, she beckons him closer to choose - or whatever else he decides to do with the inviting curl of her fingers, inviting him closer. ] So what will you have?
[ Laughter comes with a sudden bark as he move to finish the last of his cup. ]
They would have better luck at teaching mutts not to bark.
[ Too much in the air, thick and heavy with a pressure that sits just so on his shoulders. Sees him hold his breath as she moves suddenly, pulling away towards the bar. He pays attention as she walks, the liquor is to blame, yet his gaze wanders about her frame. The promise previously made far away, half forgotten, as he pushes himself away to join her with slow heavy steps.
His fill of drink, was it not? The way she beckons makes him question, makes him wonder, is it truly drink he is supposedly meant to take his fill of? She is a woman who seems to take joy in speaking in riddle, words cloaked in the shadows she wears so tightly against his skin. The questions are born and die upon his tongue in the same breath, yet he steps forward all the same. Taking her invitation, stepping closer, closer, until very little space remains. ]
I can have whatever I wish, no? [ Close enough to feel warmth through his coat, close enough for a blade to pierce his side. ]
[ He is taller than she, and like this it is more readily noticeable. Her face tilting up towards him as he stands before her, his warmth settling comfortably close to her. Nothing she regrets, not right now. Invites by lack of resistance on her behalf, instead her shoulders set open, careful line of her neck all bare. See what he will do with the offer, how far he will test what she is offering.
Slowly it seems and her smile is nothing but appreciative, inviting. Closer then, closer. ]
Whatever you wish. You are at your leisure for this night at least.
[ She likes her games, her twisting words, protecting herself, and the habit that just enough is more than enough to torment. Knows the lean in that comes so second nature to secrets, to mysteries, and she can give him this one, of her, for now. ]
[ Ah, perhaps he will have some regrets come morning and perhaps a headache or two. Not now, of course, now he has no regrets standing so close to her as he is. Her smaller, shorter, frame has him looking down upon her, sun kissed skin almost aglow in the dim candlelight. What will he do with this? Her invitation placed so in front of him, plain in all the little ways she holds herself. It would be remiss of him to ignore it, would it not?
[ It's done by increments, all slow moving threat, a prowl that slips into her movements. Pushing up into the lean in of him, a hand moving off the bar to press first flat to his chest like she might just push him off, but curls at the base of his throat, sharp inside her talons, how long sine she'd felt this - when she had been young, a queen, and the world did not weigh so upon her. How long - since she had her boy, and gold seemed to thread itself in her hair with her own delight.
She's not one to do anything by halves, she will wait long perhaps, but once decided, there is never going back from it. Her fingers draw him into her, pulling them together in a purposeful way that demands his attention -- all of it. Away from his Order and her rebels. There is only her and there is only him and there is only this raw twisting thing between them where they are licking each others bleeding open miseries, each others grief, each others yearning. ]
Then indulge me, Marquis.
[ And she kisses him, hard, mouth set against his. Still predator, slow then quick and all at once as she tilts into him. Head turned to the side and her free hand pressing up from the bar to keep her steady. Keeping the closeness solid. Decided, and yes, yes there is no going back - but like this, she doesn't want to. ]
[ He places himself in her grip deliberately, allows her talons to curl and grip until he can no longer see a means to escape. But it is a thrill to be caught there in the grip of her, so dangerously close to her thorns. They will slice him apart surely, see him cut and bleed before the night is out - a fact he finds himself caring little about. It only entices him further, lures him closer, hungry for the contact - the warmth of her and the promise it provides.
She does not disappoint, pushing to take what she wants rather than wait for it to come to her. Mouth hard against his, body pressed close, so close. He does not hesitate in his movements, arm wrapping around to hold her close as he presses into her, pressed them both closer to the bar. His mouth both hard as it is gentle, greedy as he is languid. Kissing her is as intoxicating as the swill they had been drinking not even moments ago, he knows then there is no going back, no way to go back.
But he does not care, does not want to. He wants to drown his grief in the taste of her lips, the curves of her body, the warmth of it. Drown it all until nothing is left. ]
[ She doesn't know what she expects to find in his mouth, certainly not peace or salvation or hope - but there's the drink there, all sun water, and that bitter under taste of ash and charcoal, all burned up, and maybe that's the grief. But tastes his or maybe her own desperation keen back and it does nothing dissuade her from keeping herself firmly there in his hold.
Slips back a step, her arm relenting little by little as she lets him chase in close, until she can feel the dig in of the wooden bench top at her back. To where she's got him all in close and caught that way she likes best, and she hums a faint noise of approval. Not perfect, his hands are gloved and nothing but her fingertips free to catch in the cloth of his clothes. The drink whirls up behind her eyes, when they close, and with the bar to support her and his weight to anchor off, she elects her move it around him instead. Hooking around his shoulders, keeping him close, balancing precariously where he could drop her just as well. Her other still trapped and gripping him tight in threat and safety. Cannot move it from there to slice him open, like she was so often accused of doing.
But breathing in the same short stolen seconds between the slow rhythm she sets in kissing him, it's not on her mind. ]
[ He's too aware of her, too aware of how she moves, how caught he is between her fingers, of the low noise that only just brushes against his ears. Pleased as a cat that caught it's prey, toying wit it before the last strike falls. She could tear him apart now and he wagers he would not care, not so drunk as he is on their shared desperation, the drink on her lips, the warmth of her.
Teeth drag lightly across her bottom lip as he removes his hands from her, blindly peeling his gloves from his hands, casting them side. Better, he thinks, swift to take hold of her again. Hiking down enough to grip her thighs, lift her up and close with a single motion. Grip tight, he breaks from the kiss only take to her jaw and the soft skin of her throat. A vulnerable place, as the knights know well, easy to reach as close as he now sits. But no, no blade, only teeth and lips against her pulse. Only his hands at the small of her back, fighting against fabrics.
A condemned man, he must be, for all that he does here and now. Sinking his teeth into the flesh of a queen, a rebel, and hoping to hear her sing. ]
[ Her fingers dig into his shoulder, anchor as she realises what he is doing, bracing to jump as he lifts to make the dragging up easier. Settling on the edge of the bench top, using the second it breaks the kiss to catch her breath in a quick lungful of air. In sharp through her nose as she turns into the wandering line of his mouth. Exposing the line of her neck far too eagerly.
She'd forgotten in her haste to tear what it was to be torn herself. Have some sink into her in return. Her goal when she gets her hands free was to take her gloves off first but she wants suddenly and urgently, his teeth on her neck more, the warmth of his breath to chase off the cold from her bones, as it draws a sharp noise out from her, and she tugs at her scarf instead. Unravelling it from around her neck to give him space to roam. Discarding it beside her in a pile. Curving up against his mouth and his body in a reckless second where she forgoes the idea that she needs to think this through at all. Catching him in the bracket of her thighs. Hands with a mind of their own as she goes to undo the buckle of strap across his chest, to get easier at the buttons underneath. ]
[ He breaks briefly, hovers over her skin as she tugs at her scarf, the fabric falling away to be discarded. It is a beautiful neck, he muses descending upon the freed flesh, as graceful as a swans and soft as silk. And his to claim, to worship. A breathy chuckle into her flesh, he follows her pulse, sucking and biting as he goes along. The noise she makes - by God it is as music to his ears and he wants, so suddenly, to hear more of it.
With that goal in mind his hands move on their own accord, one pressed to keep her close as the other undoes her buckles. Hasty and impatient in their movements, a desperate greed to reach what lies underneath all those clothes.
They do not need to consider, to think, for when the sun rises they will no long remember each other's face. When the sun rises this will be nothing more than a passing thought, a dream. Some fancy of another time when too much drink had gone to their heads. For now, however, the curve of her body and the sound of quickening breath is all that exists in this world. ]
[ There's an animistic pull to each gesture, to him at her throat and her reach to get at his chest. Still she tries to remember to help, to hold still when he's getting at her buckles. Feeling the looser movements when it finally comes free, and the sash around her waist coming undone with it. Her jacket set looser without the bindings. Hard on her clothes, and not at the luxury the knights were with their uniforms. Everything was worn in, comfortable to come on and off quickly because of it. Gone are the days when she had ladies to dress her, rub oils into her hands and hair. Here she is plain, now, save for the remnants of the woman she had been hung about her.
Now her hands are rough as they get his jacket undone and she returns his attentions. Animal still, as she turns her own mouth to his throat and the little bared skin. Sees that - and it is all she cares about. Feels the heat of him, and for once doesn't think about battlefields and blood. Just tastes the salt on his skin and hums faintly in the simplicity of that. Feeling the rough brush of his stubble against her lips and laughing into him with the easiness that seems to come between them. ]
[ Her own lips are distracting enough to give him pause, hands stilling in their self appointed task to rid her of jacket. It is only then he remembers the gorget and his own jacket, breaking from her briefly to unshackle it from his neck. He grins at her as the metal clangs against the floor, shoulders rolling to shrug off his jacket as well. He wastes little time after that, returning his attention to curve of her jaw, hands working to push her own from her shoulders.
It is too easy, perhaps, though he cares little, tasting her skin with a pleased hum before he finds her lips once more. Kissing her hard, fierce, hands working to slip underneath the soft fabrics of her shirt. Mapping the warm flesh underneath he feels out the curve of her spine and the small bumps underneath. Greedy to drink the taste of her, to feel her skin upon his fingertips, upon his own flesh, hands push up higher and higher. What he intends could not be clearer, she will be free of it as much as all the else, so he may map the rest of her with kisses. ]
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no subject
It is just as miserable in France? God, no. She does not rain nearly as much, her winters do not linger through spring and summer. [ A man of the world, a man of two revolutions, but a Frenchman at heart. Always and forever. ] She is kissed by the sun and perfumed by the smell of fresh flowers.
[ He misses the sun, he realizes then, the warmth of it. Shining days are never quite as warm as they should be in England, the threat of rain always standing off to the edge of the sky. ]
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I heard the sun in the south is something to be seen. [ From artists and poets at least. They trickle through these doors more than almost anyone else. Forever in love with someone woman they cannot have. ] I never thought to miss summer, but I miss feeling at least somewhat dry, having the warmth on my skin. [ Granted if she spent her time in more noble houses perhaps she would not feel that way. But here? In the muck and the dirt, it feels sunk into her skin -- and especially now. Seems fitting to so much misery, maybe.
Another mouthful, another grimace for it and her head tilts, tips. ] Listen to us, anyone would think we were homesick.
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Could he deny it? No, not in the slightest. Just by the sound of them they sound like the forlorn, torn and denied that which brought them both such joy. The warmth of home. ]
What a pair we must make.
[ A knight and the rebel queen, commiserating together on such a miserable night. ]
What of your home, mademoiselle? Tell me of the suns of India. I would know of their beauty.
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No one said eternity made men clever. [ sharp little dig for as much him as her, but it's kindly meant. ] It could not be more different to here, or France, or any of the countries this side of the continent. [ Tips her cup, watching the almost gone amber liquid catch the light. Could be sun glittering for all their present dreaming, and suddenly the drink is stomachable, a fair price to pay for drinking light. ] It will build and build with heat, until it's cloying in the back of your throat, there is no relief at night either that way. Summers are generous that way. [ The cup is set down, she leans forward with her hand to where he lingers and ghosts the space between them, a drawn up line, to his pulse. ] Sometimes you think you can feel it in your blood itself, it settles itself into each breath. Then just when you think you can take no more of it - it breaks. Then it will storm, for hours the rain will pour down in torrents before just as suddenly, it is gone. It goes like this for all of summer.
[ Her hand withdraws, eyes on him. Warm, warm, warm, with the summers she speaks of. ] It is not forgiving, rather the heat can be maddening at times.
no subject
The man to stand in place of the knight.
He listens close, attention caught firmly between those slender fingers. It is a grand picture she weaves, unrelenting heat pressed down hard upon it's people. Imitating suddenly, perhaps, by her fingers drawing line up his pulse. ( A terrible man thinks himself in danger, counts the opportunity and watches it slip by. ) Warm, truly warm, summers to break the unwary and the weak. No wonder she stands so strong, burns so bright. ]
Much like it's queen. [ A smile hooked to one side, jest and compliment all in one. ] It sounds like paradise compared to the piercing cold of England.
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She might not be completely immune to it, as she pretends most of the time. It's ridiculous, but that's the point. Watching him again, carefully. ]
It feels like it some times. Then I remember how my clothes would stick to me at times, I wanted nothing but to throw myself into the rain for some relief, and I do have to wonder who has the right of it. [ But she misses it all the same, doesn't need to say it. That much is plain. ] And you, Marquis, is it true all frenchmen are so charming, or are you particularly gifted?
no subject
Perhaps this damn English rain has some use after all. [ He would not have thought earlier this evening he would be sitting in a bar alone with the rebel queen doing his best not to picture cloths slick against her skin. It makes him thankful for her question, dragging him swift from his thoughts. ]
Not all of my countrymen can be as charming as I, but some come close. No, mademoiselle, I am unique amongst my fellows. [ As, morbidly, he still has his head. ]
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That you are. [ her eyes crinkle with the smile, the bottle set down empty and she shakes her head. She means, she studies her enemies carefully, seen him from the other end of the gun to know how good his shot is - she means he's nothing she finds hard to look at. ] A man of many skills I hear told often enough. [ Crinkles, imaging him, as someone else maybe. The blackwater stripped them of much, most especially the people they were before. ] It must be useful.
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He holds up his cup, motioning towards her with eyebrows raised. ] As are you. [ Unique, not hard to look upon, more pleasant company than he dares to admit. ] Oui, I am as expertly skilled off the battlefield as I am on.
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We are not exactly... usual company. [ Her lips press together, that numbness is coming up comfortably again. Content and warm. Her teeth catch against her bottom lip, pressing in sharp on words decorum would say otherwise about. She's all predator, because she always has been just different. Slow, encroaching. She measures too often, too carefully. Even like this when there's heat crawling up her spine. ] Careful, Marquis, I might ask what kind of woman you think I am. [ The girls that had worked here, told her how he talked. ]
no subject
I think you are not a woman to be trifled with, a desert rose that is as beautiful as she is dangerous. [ Honeyed words wholly meant, slipping from his lips as effortless as if he were to simply breathe. ] A woman not so easily charmed by flattery and suggestion.
[ Not that he is attempting to charm her, no, he would not dare. Would he? The warmth makes him reckless, more so than normal, entertaining idle thoughts of baiting a tiger with slabs of meat. Dangerous thoughts to be true, belonging to a man of younger years. Yet they sit nevertheless, a small prickle on the edge of his thoughts. ]
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An old bad habit, that when she had decided she wanted something, that she became fixed on it. It had no lessened in the years, the matter now is more what she intends about it. ]
Better than my poets. [ Not charmed easily, and yes, yes never to be trifled with except when she lets someone do so. Her terms, her battlefields, twisting them to suit her. ] I suppose if that's true - I need not warn you of thorns. [ Since he'd worked that all by himself already. ] I would hate for you to slice yourself on them. [ Soft, as she hangs the warning in front of him, like a promise more than a threat. He will, of course he will. ]
no subject
And Lafayette, ah, he shares her old habit in a way; not one to give up a pursuit once began. ]
I do not fear thorns, mademoiselle. [ Reckless, truly, he will see himself bleed if he continues he knows. ] There is no pleasure without a little pain.
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[ But it's a little too quick this way. Watching him like she's considering something this time. Comes to a choice and decides on it, and pushes her body up quickly. Pushing her fingers against the bench top to straighten herself. She pulls back, turning quick on her heel, as she heads towards the bar itself. Air thick with all sorts of things between them now, especially the warmth of liquor - and that might just be what this is. Chasing a forgotten summer in the bottom of a glass, or in company. ] I believe I promised you your fill of drink.
[ She doesn't look at what she snatches in her quick fingers. Turning to lean against the bar with it held in her hand, elbows propped up to support her weight. It'll do her for the time being, whatever it is. There's no table between them, now, and as she leans, picture of being at her own leisure, she beckons him closer to choose - or whatever else he decides to do with the inviting curl of her fingers, inviting him closer. ] So what will you have?
no subject
They would have better luck at teaching mutts not to bark.
[ Too much in the air, thick and heavy with a pressure that sits just so on his shoulders. Sees him hold his breath as she moves suddenly, pulling away towards the bar. He pays attention as she walks, the liquor is to blame, yet his gaze wanders about her frame. The promise previously made far away, half forgotten, as he pushes himself away to join her with slow heavy steps.
His fill of drink, was it not? The way she beckons makes him question, makes him wonder, is it truly drink he is supposedly meant to take his fill of? She is a woman who seems to take joy in speaking in riddle, words cloaked in the shadows she wears so tightly against his skin. The questions are born and die upon his tongue in the same breath, yet he steps forward all the same. Taking her invitation, stepping closer, closer, until very little space remains. ]
I can have whatever I wish, no? [ Close enough to feel warmth through his coat, close enough for a blade to pierce his side. ]
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Slowly it seems and her smile is nothing but appreciative, inviting. Closer then, closer. ]
Whatever you wish. You are at your leisure for this night at least.
[ She likes her games, her twisting words, protecting herself, and the habit that just enough is more than enough to torment. Knows the lean in that comes so second nature to secrets, to mysteries, and she can give him this one, of her, for now. ]
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We are both free to indulge this night.
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She's not one to do anything by halves, she will wait long perhaps, but once decided, there is never going back from it. Her fingers draw him into her, pulling them together in a purposeful way that demands his attention -- all of it. Away from his Order and her rebels. There is only her and there is only him and there is only this raw twisting thing between them where they are licking each others bleeding open miseries, each others grief, each others yearning. ]
Then indulge me, Marquis.
[ And she kisses him, hard, mouth set against his. Still predator, slow then quick and all at once as she tilts into him. Head turned to the side and her free hand pressing up from the bar to keep her steady. Keeping the closeness solid. Decided, and yes, yes there is no going back - but like this, she doesn't want to. ]
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She does not disappoint, pushing to take what she wants rather than wait for it to come to her. Mouth hard against his, body pressed close, so close. He does not hesitate in his movements, arm wrapping around to hold her close as he presses into her, pressed them both closer to the bar. His mouth both hard as it is gentle, greedy as he is languid. Kissing her is as intoxicating as the swill they had been drinking not even moments ago, he knows then there is no going back, no way to go back.
But he does not care, does not want to. He wants to drown his grief in the taste of her lips, the curves of her body, the warmth of it. Drown it all until nothing is left. ]
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Slips back a step, her arm relenting little by little as she lets him chase in close, until she can feel the dig in of the wooden bench top at her back. To where she's got him all in close and caught that way she likes best, and she hums a faint noise of approval. Not perfect, his hands are gloved and nothing but her fingertips free to catch in the cloth of his clothes. The drink whirls up behind her eyes, when they close, and with the bar to support her and his weight to anchor off, she elects her move it around him instead. Hooking around his shoulders, keeping him close, balancing precariously where he could drop her just as well. Her other still trapped and gripping him tight in threat and safety. Cannot move it from there to slice him open, like she was so often accused of doing.
But breathing in the same short stolen seconds between the slow rhythm she sets in kissing him, it's not on her mind. ]
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Teeth drag lightly across her bottom lip as he removes his hands from her, blindly peeling his gloves from his hands, casting them side. Better, he thinks, swift to take hold of her again. Hiking down enough to grip her thighs, lift her up and close with a single motion. Grip tight, he breaks from the kiss only take to her jaw and the soft skin of her throat. A vulnerable place, as the knights know well, easy to reach as close as he now sits. But no, no blade, only teeth and lips against her pulse. Only his hands at the small of her back, fighting against fabrics.
A condemned man, he must be, for all that he does here and now. Sinking his teeth into the flesh of a queen, a rebel, and hoping to hear her sing. ]
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She'd forgotten in her haste to tear what it was to be torn herself. Have some sink into her in return. Her goal when she gets her hands free was to take her gloves off first but she wants suddenly and urgently, his teeth on her neck more, the warmth of his breath to chase off the cold from her bones, as it draws a sharp noise out from her, and she tugs at her scarf instead. Unravelling it from around her neck to give him space to roam. Discarding it beside her in a pile. Curving up against his mouth and his body in a reckless second where she forgoes the idea that she needs to think this through at all. Catching him in the bracket of her thighs. Hands with a mind of their own as she goes to undo the buckle of strap across his chest, to get easier at the buttons underneath. ]
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With that goal in mind his hands move on their own accord, one pressed to keep her close as the other undoes her buckles. Hasty and impatient in their movements, a desperate greed to reach what lies underneath all those clothes.
They do not need to consider, to think, for when the sun rises they will no long remember each other's face. When the sun rises this will be nothing more than a passing thought, a dream. Some fancy of another time when too much drink had gone to their heads. For now, however, the curve of her body and the sound of quickening breath is all that exists in this world. ]
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Now her hands are rough as they get his jacket undone and she returns his attentions. Animal still, as she turns her own mouth to his throat and the little bared skin. Sees that - and it is all she cares about. Feels the heat of him, and for once doesn't think about battlefields and blood. Just tastes the salt on his skin and hums faintly in the simplicity of that. Feeling the rough brush of his stubble against her lips and laughing into him with the easiness that seems to come between them. ]
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It is too easy, perhaps, though he cares little, tasting her skin with a pleased hum before he finds her lips once more. Kissing her hard, fierce, hands working to slip underneath the soft fabrics of her shirt. Mapping the warm flesh underneath he feels out the curve of her spine and the small bumps underneath. Greedy to drink the taste of her, to feel her skin upon his fingertips, upon his own flesh, hands push up higher and higher. What he intends could not be clearer, she will be free of it as much as all the else, so he may map the rest of her with kisses. ]
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