Yeah, [ He fumbles at the gauntlet, works a tie free to pull mail and glove from sweaty palm, knuckles lined faint for pressure. Leather twists between fingertip, ] Just helps, y'know. Doing something with your hands.
[ I'm frustrated, He’s starting to say. Rutyer wants to come 'round tomorrow, and there's something on with him, and if he calls me dear again I won't be held liable,
and then
She’s pulling her hair up, and he’s shifting to match. Breath puffs, only half a laugh – holding the cord – ]
Here, [ Steel creaks, ruddy-gold with reflected heat. Sunset soon. It’s his bare hand that reaches for her, gentle in rough skin; old callus. ] Let me.
(Gela makes a noise in agreement, a little ascending hum in her throat and looks when the sun glints off his gauntlet, flashing a bit of orange light onto the post she was hanging off of moments before. When he offers and extends his hand she smiles properly, warmth a bloom in her chest. An unexpected kindness; she turns for him, so he can see what he's doing better.
From this angle, hair drawn back, the ear with a notch missing from it (the left one) is more plain.)
Thank you.
(This is throwing her off, too, albeit in a much nicer way.)
[ She turns, and he works the cord into place; metal bracing defter finger. A bang slips free, and his hand brushes neck. Warmth, skin for skin, and Cedric draws back. Slight. Apologetic. ]
Y'look, [ A breath in. Heady on tea and summer jasmine, and the leaf tangled stubborn into curl. She looks exactly how she always does. She looks, ] Beautiful.
[ It's the wrong time to say it. Always the wrong time, but worse now: Half-armored, a forceful thing, and behind him all the evidence of war. Of a frightful purpose. Gela doesn't often pass the yard, didn't fight; has never spied his sword bloody. His palms.
Unsafe.
But his hand is empty. But his face, throat are bared. But there's that notch in her ear; the scars that his eyes have traced time and again in silent question, and just now he is so tired of smallness. What's the point of a shield, if it only shelters you?
(That slight brush of fingers on her neck, she finds the skin being rougher than she thought it would be — they're working hands, ones that hold the shield up and bring the sword down — works a little shudder out of her, but she doesn't laugh. There's no nervousness; she isn't ticklish. She turns her head slightly but still can't see him, only sense the suggestion of him standing behind with hands together to gather her hair up so gently.
Sort of dreamlike.
Gela smiles.) Calling me beautiful, or doing my hair?
(Warm, easy teasing. She likes this part of it so much, the gentle flirting before anything really happens. It always feels familiar to her.) Both are very alright.
[ Something slips loose, smile melting into the space between them — Maker, there is so much space between them — the fence she'd swung upon improbably steady. A few feet of wood posts might make the Imperial Highway. Gazing between freckle, mole, freckle; he confesses, ]
Thank god. Needed to say that for weeks.
[ Stubby nails lift to the space where jaw meets throat, tucking a black strand behind ear. ]
Everyone oughta tell you all the time. Just shines out of you. Maybe that’s cheap, [ His hand pulls free, palm coming to rest between the crest of her shoulders. ] But it’s true.
Did you? (She wants to touch him now that he's said that but thinks of him in his plate, walled off save for his hands, his face. That's okay. It will be nice to take his hands, but only once he's finished stroking his thumb across her pulse, and it's not like she doesn't enjoy the meticulousness with which he makes sure every strand is drawn back into the collection at the nape of her neck.
Wisely,) The only reason I shouldn't be told so often is that I'll end up walking around like I own the place.
(But on a more sincere note, tone softening accordingly,) Thank you. (Been a while since Gela felt beautiful — or even at all desirable. They all saw her struggle through recovery for months; Clarisse even purportedly watched the demon melt its copy of Gela's face completely off, so—
His palm on her back steadies her body's sway.) Your hands are so warm, (she comments. From the exercise?) They're nice.
[ Half a laugh - for the joke, or the strange relief of it. Of being so near. ]
Yeah, since Remember to Pay.
[ Since she came back to herself. Maybe then. Maybe a little later. He's always had eyes, but: Another life, a stall at the market,
His hands are hot. Nice. They're so often cold, ache in the small hours of the night, and he knows why as surely as he doesn't need to think of it now. Cedric's chin tips, cants to meet her. It is,
A bad day to have chosen armor. He'd stand another hour to hold her like this, watching muscles splay; the drift of her balance in his. Kneel in the dirt if she’d let him, just to feel the tug of her knuckles. But there's an open yard. But there's the fence between them. But there's this fucking tasset, ]
D'you wanna get out of here?
[ There's a whole city beyond this little island. There's also a bath, which he sorely needs. ]
(A laugh tumbles out of Gela; at last she turns her cheek. He's got a little look about him, like he could laugh too, and she follows it, gazes up the line of his jaw where it's set, holding in all his thoughts.) Oh no. Really?
(That's embarrassing, and sort of lovely all in once. Maybe there's something more to a terrible joke. She comes in closer to the line drawn between them. There is sweat at his temple and his eyes are — well, it's difficult to say, because he's blocking the sun with his head and she can't tell their colour, but he's obviously looking at her and she likes the attention.
The offer, even more. She puts her palm to his chest and plate armor. She splays her fingers where it's hot.
God, their first meeting was when she caught him leaving food outside of her door again. He knew she wasn't making round trips to the dining hall. He wanted to know what she was really like—)
Yes. But you're not going to wear this, are you? (Tassets and shield, the helmet in the dirt. Hmm:) It looks difficult to remove alone.
[ A grin splits wide, crinkles the shadow about his eyes. ]
Goes better for two. Quicker, anyway. [ Can’t feel her hand on him, light as it is, but hard to think of anything else; the way she centers the swell of his chest. ] Wouldn’t mind taking our time.
[ Hand settles over hers, measuring the space where one finger swallows another. Pulse on pulse. Thumb on thumb, a thimble tracing circle into nail.
There's a small fortune in steel lying in the yard behind him. Wouldn't take but a moment to pull free and fetch. It'd be stupid, careless, to leave it. He’s feeling pretty stupid just now.
Cedric leans close. Wraps the second arm about her waist, and lifts – laughing – ]
(Gela hums something soft, a few notes up, down and up.) I have all afternoon, (in case that may be of interest. It isn't entirely true — there's always something to be doing — but when you're your own boss nobody keeps score besides yourself, and Cedric is looking at her like he's never seen something so lovely, fingertips in the spaces between her own, tapping out something rhythm or pulse she doesn't know. She likes it.
He leans in and her head tilts, following, a burst of laughter coming out of her when he instead lifts her up like it's nothing. Pulls her up over the fence.
She rakes that palm up, to his shoulder to push down on, help herself over.
Nothing catches on the wood. She had thought about the pockets on her skirt—)
I can take some of those things.
(What's lying on the ground behind, noticed from before, obviously, because she can't take her eyes off him now that they're close, hand on his shoulder — anchored on what Gela thinks is a pauldron? She knows little about armor, actually. But maybe today she'll learn.)
it's been a thousand years dot jpg, pls feel free to drop or handwave whatever as works 4 u
[ If they go now, the tent'll be empty. Her hand on his shoulder, that little bounce of pressure and release – he wants, at once, to know the weight of it on skin. The way muscle stretches under sleeve, the swirl of skirt and breeze,
His thigh brushes the space between hers, teeth grazing air before chin cants and lips press to jaw; light as the lap of tongue beneath.
It'll wait. There's always more war. Only so much this. ]
sorry I still want this thread even though I don't have a kissing icon
(She smiles into it in the same moment it takes his teeth to touch air because she can tell it's coming. Her hand on his shoulder tightens then releases, a pulse, and she drags it over metal without looking, searching for skin. The warmth of his neck. She fits her thumb in there near his jaw and tilts his head to bring his mouth over, up some. Not a stranger to knowing what she wants — more than a peck on the cheek.
Her hand doesn't move, as if unsure he'll stay there without direction.
His skin is sweaty from the training and he tastes a little of it, like he's been panting. Gela is dimly aware that he'll feel the scar on her upper lip, thick.
That's fine. He can feel it.)
im throwing half a draft i found before i write you a new thing at some point
[ A surprised little sound, pleased and eager and questing for the shape of her tongue. There's a hand on his neck, direction, and there's another in the small of her back, hitching into her. Motion dips between braced hand and hunger.
It's been a while. Necking it with some sad mercenary – well, you can live on bread and water. It's nothing for the taste of salt, a little sweetness between them; iron where he nips at a lip. (To wonder what must have once split it)
To draw up for air is, ]
Maker,
[ He isn't thinking about the Maker right now. There's only one thing on his mind: Written in hazy eyes and thumping pulse. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ I'm frustrated, He’s starting to say. Rutyer wants to come 'round tomorrow, and there's something on with him, and if he calls me dear again I won't be held liable,
and then
She’s pulling her hair up, and he’s shifting to match. Breath puffs, only half a laugh – holding the cord – ]
Here, [ Steel creaks, ruddy-gold with reflected heat. Sunset soon. It’s his bare hand that reaches for her, gentle in rough skin; old callus. ] Let me.
no subject
From this angle, hair drawn back, the ear with a notch missing from it (the left one) is more plain.)
Thank you.
(This is throwing her off, too, albeit in a much nicer way.)
no subject
Y'look, [ A breath in. Heady on tea and summer jasmine, and the leaf tangled stubborn into curl. She looks exactly how she always does. She looks, ] Beautiful.
[ It's the wrong time to say it. Always the wrong time, but worse now: Half-armored, a forceful thing, and behind him all the evidence of war. Of a frightful purpose. Gela doesn't often pass the yard, didn't fight; has never spied his sword bloody. His palms.
Unsafe.
But his hand is empty. But his face, throat are bared. But there's that notch in her ear; the scars that his eyes have traced time and again in silent question, and just now he is so tired of smallness. What's the point of a shield, if it only shelters you?
He reaches for the leaf. Soft, ]
Is that alright?
no subject
Sort of dreamlike.
Gela smiles.) Calling me beautiful, or doing my hair?
(Warm, easy teasing. She likes this part of it so much, the gentle flirting before anything really happens. It always feels familiar to her.) Both are very alright.
no subject
Thank god. Needed to say that for weeks.
[ Stubby nails lift to the space where jaw meets throat, tucking a black strand behind ear. ]
Everyone oughta tell you all the time. Just shines out of you. Maybe that’s cheap, [ His hand pulls free, palm coming to rest between the crest of her shoulders. ] But it’s true.
no subject
Wisely,) The only reason I shouldn't be told so often is that I'll end up walking around like I own the place.
(But on a more sincere note, tone softening accordingly,) Thank you. (Been a while since Gela felt beautiful — or even at all desirable. They all saw her struggle through recovery for months; Clarisse even purportedly watched the demon melt its copy of Gela's face completely off, so—
His palm on her back steadies her body's sway.) Your hands are so warm, (she comments. From the exercise?) They're nice.
no subject
Yeah, since Remember to Pay.
[ Since she came back to herself. Maybe then. Maybe a little later. He's always had eyes, but: Another life, a stall at the market,
His hands are hot. Nice. They're so often cold, ache in the small hours of the night, and he knows why as surely as he doesn't need to think of it now. Cedric's chin tips, cants to meet her. It is,
A bad day to have chosen armor. He'd stand another hour to hold her like this, watching muscles splay; the drift of her balance in his. Kneel in the dirt if she’d let him, just to feel the tug of her knuckles. But there's an open yard. But there's the fence between them. But there's this fucking tasset, ]
D'you wanna get out of here?
[ There's a whole city beyond this little island. There's also a bath, which he sorely needs. ]
no subject
(That's embarrassing, and sort of lovely all in once. Maybe there's something more to a terrible joke. She comes in closer to the line drawn between them. There is sweat at his temple and his eyes are — well, it's difficult to say, because he's blocking the sun with his head and she can't tell their colour, but he's obviously looking at her and she likes the attention.
The offer, even more. She puts her palm to his chest and plate armor. She splays her fingers where it's hot.
God, their first meeting was when she caught him leaving food outside of her door again. He knew she wasn't making round trips to the dining hall. He wanted to know what she was really like—)
Yes. But you're not going to wear this, are you? (Tassets and shield, the helmet in the dirt. Hmm:) It looks difficult to remove alone.
no subject
Goes better for two. Quicker, anyway. [ Can’t feel her hand on him, light as it is, but hard to think of anything else; the way she centers the swell of his chest. ] Wouldn’t mind taking our time.
[ Hand settles over hers, measuring the space where one finger swallows another. Pulse on pulse. Thumb on thumb, a thimble tracing circle into nail.
There's a small fortune in steel lying in the yard behind him. Wouldn't take but a moment to pull free and fetch. It'd be stupid, careless, to leave it. He’s feeling pretty stupid just now.
Cedric leans close. Wraps the second arm about her waist, and lifts – laughing – ]
Right then, let's go,
[ The fence isn't so tall. He can swing it. ]
no subject
He leans in and her head tilts, following, a burst of laughter coming out of her when he instead lifts her up like it's nothing. Pulls her up over the fence.
She rakes that palm up, to his shoulder to push down on, help herself over.
Nothing catches on the wood. She had thought about the pockets on her skirt—)
I can take some of those things.
(What's lying on the ground behind, noticed from before, obviously, because she can't take her eyes off him now that they're close, hand on his shoulder — anchored on what Gela thinks is a pauldron? She knows little about armor, actually. But maybe today she'll learn.)
it's been a thousand years dot jpg, pls feel free to drop or handwave whatever as works 4 u
[ If they go now, the tent'll be empty. Her hand on his shoulder, that little bounce of pressure and release – he wants, at once, to know the weight of it on skin. The way muscle stretches under sleeve, the swirl of skirt and breeze,
His thigh brushes the space between hers, teeth grazing air before chin cants and lips press to jaw; light as the lap of tongue beneath.
It'll wait. There's always more war. Only so much this. ]
sorry I still want this thread even though I don't have a kissing icon
Her hand doesn't move, as if unsure he'll stay there without direction.
His skin is sweaty from the training and he tastes a little of it, like he's been panting. Gela is dimly aware that he'll feel the scar on her upper lip, thick.
That's fine. He can feel it.)
im throwing half a draft i found before i write you a new thing at some point
It's been a while. Necking it with some sad mercenary – well, you can live on bread and water. It's nothing for the taste of salt, a little sweetness between them; iron where he nips at a lip. (To wonder what must have once split it)
To draw up for air is, ]
Maker,
[ He isn't thinking about the Maker right now. There's only one thing on his mind: Written in hazy eyes and thumping pulse. ]