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portalling) wrote2022-04-02 01:17 pm
portalling) wrote2022-04-02 01:17 pm
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(It’s so rude to not even consider the idea that he might’ve been busy with someone like Lady Clothilde, actually—)
But, bemused, Stephen steps aside. “Ah, so you’ve been up to spy stuff,” he says mildly, although there’s a touch of admiration in his voice. “I thought that was more the purview of Scouting.”
Not for the first nor the last time, he’s reminded of the Black Widows, of lethal and competent women with knives, climbing rooftops. He holds the window like he’s holding a door open for her — the chilly wind’s cutting into the room, nipping at his open throat — and ushers Gwenaëlle in from the cold, bizarre as the whole thing feels.
He wonders if he should be offering hot tea; a nightcap.
But, bemused, Stephen steps aside. “Ah, so you’ve been up to spy stuff,” he says mildly, although there’s a touch of admiration in his voice. “I thought that was more the purview of Scouting.”
Not for the first nor the last time, he’s reminded of the Black Widows, of lethal and competent women with knives, climbing rooftops. He holds the window like he’s holding a door open for her — the chilly wind’s cutting into the room, nipping at his open throat — and ushers Gwenaëlle in from the cold, bizarre as the whole thing feels.
He wonders if he should be offering hot tea; a nightcap.
Er. Oh. Yes.
( Tav’s just settled in and started sifting through the earth with his bare hands as if that was a very normal thing to say, leaving Strange standing above him, at loose ends. Did he hear that right? )
That’s good. That you’re working with Rowntree. ( Okay, no, he has to be sure: ) —Sorry, did you just say murderous urges?
( Tav’s just settled in and started sifting through the earth with his bare hands as if that was a very normal thing to say, leaving Strange standing above him, at loose ends. Did he hear that right? )
That’s good. That you’re working with Rowntree. ( Okay, no, he has to be sure: ) —Sorry, did you just say murderous urges?
[Tav starts a couple springs of Elfroot growing beneath his hands before turning back to Strange, eyebrows furrowed. For a moment he continues his work before he withdraws his hands and sits back on his feet.]
Yes, sir.
[He drops his gaze back down to the dirt.]
Yes, sir.
[He drops his gaze back down to the dirt.]
That’s. Interesting.
( Interesting probably isn’t the right word to fit the situation, but. He can’t help that scalpel-slice of his curiosity, of wanting to know more, to understand: )
And it only happens at night?
( Interesting probably isn’t the right word to fit the situation, but. He can’t help that scalpel-slice of his curiosity, of wanting to know more, to understand: )
And it only happens at night?
Hauling in all of her skirts with her — deep red velvet, matching layers of petticoats, all glimpsed by the armful between folds of her fur-lined cloak — Gwenaëlle glances at him directly, momentarily drawn to pause by (in contrast) his (incredibly predictable) state of dishabille.
Well, and what was she expecting, banging on his window at this hour.
(Not Clothilde.)
“Well, generally,” she concedes, heroically, instead of saying something incredibly stupid. “But when something falls into your lap, what sort of idiot passes it up because it isn't your division? Adenet's mistress,”
in several senses of the word,
“took to me. It merited finding out why— it's rarely that I'm so irresistibly charming. For both our sakes, better to be discreet about it— ergo—”
She shoves her hood back, loose curls tumbling around her face and shoulders and the lighter-weight fabric of her gown's construction there. “Silver has said I could be useful that way, before.”
So has Byerly Rutyer, but it's slowly become easier to believe from John Silver; he understands her better, she thinks.
Well, and what was she expecting, banging on his window at this hour.
(Not Clothilde.)
“Well, generally,” she concedes, heroically, instead of saying something incredibly stupid. “But when something falls into your lap, what sort of idiot passes it up because it isn't your division? Adenet's mistress,”
in several senses of the word,
“took to me. It merited finding out why— it's rarely that I'm so irresistibly charming. For both our sakes, better to be discreet about it— ergo—”
She shoves her hood back, loose curls tumbling around her face and shoulders and the lighter-weight fabric of her gown's construction there. “Silver has said I could be useful that way, before.”
So has Byerly Rutyer, but it's slowly become easier to believe from John Silver; he understands her better, she thinks.
It takes him a moment to place the name and remember the context. Adenet’s mistress is a reversal, when so much of society more likely remembers Adenet as Chapentier’s attendant. Stephen’s own time in town has mostly been with the academics and researchers, not the artistic set. But he does eventually remember that talent showcase from earlier: Clarice Chapentier’s delicate wood carvings with glass mosaic, works of tremendous skill.
“Gossip amongst the elven servants, then? I’ve never really had to deal with this sort of environment before, but I always figured that upstairs-downstairs distinction means the attendants know everything going on.” He’s closing the window, latching it, turning to look at her. The drizzle of moonlight through the glass, reflecting a glint in Gwenaëlle’s false eye. There’s no bleariness to the man: he’s been suddenly, instantly awake ever since he first heard her voice.
And with that comes some restlessness, Stephen glancing at the sideboard, grasping for something to feel more like the gracious host he’d been at the Sanctum, as if this were a normal visit at a normal hour: “Do you need a drink to warm up? I have half a bottle of honeywine, although I think they cleared away the glasses—”
“Gossip amongst the elven servants, then? I’ve never really had to deal with this sort of environment before, but I always figured that upstairs-downstairs distinction means the attendants know everything going on.” He’s closing the window, latching it, turning to look at her. The drizzle of moonlight through the glass, reflecting a glint in Gwenaëlle’s false eye. There’s no bleariness to the man: he’s been suddenly, instantly awake ever since he first heard her voice.
And with that comes some restlessness, Stephen glancing at the sideboard, grasping for something to feel more like the gracious host he’d been at the Sanctum, as if this were a normal visit at a normal hour: “Do you need a drink to warm up? I have half a bottle of honeywine, although I think they cleared away the glasses—”
( The gesture is appreciated, and helps tamp down some of that strangled alarm in the sorcerer’s demeanour. To be polite, Strange moves closer and then perches on the nearest garden bench, leaning forward. Physically lowering himself a little so it’s easier to look at Tav and not just loom over him, without having to actually hunker down in a crouch. (Have some mercy on the knees.) )
Well, good. Is there…
( There’s a pause. )
It sounds like you already have an arrangement with the Captain, but I’m the Head Healer, as mentioned. Is there anything you need in this regard? Medically?
Well, good. Is there…
( There’s a pause. )
It sounds like you already have an arrangement with the Captain, but I’m the Head Healer, as mentioned. Is there anything you need in this regard? Medically?
Emerald glitters where gold would normally gaze blankly back at him, but she'd doffed her half-mask at some point already — probably when she was hitching her skirts to start climbing. When she sheds her cloak properly— “Please, I don't mind sharing the bottle,” —those skirts are secured with the not decorative after all hikes at her hips, exposing her boots, her stockinged calves and knees,
and it's not as if he's never seen her knees before. She wears trousers fitted nearly as intimate as her stockings; he'd seen most of her scars when she was discovering designer swimwear. When she flings herself down on the edge of his rumpled guest-bed, crossing her ankles, it's not even close to the most exposed she's ever been in his company.
“Adenet's the artist,” she says, holding her hand out for the bottle. “They're lovers— Chapentier's very sympathetic, and he's awfully well positioned. My sister — she never made it as far as the Marquise, but I think I might be able to pick up further than she left off, maybe.”
It had made her think of— not Thranduil, actually, but Pietro, long since disappeared back into the wilds whence he came. Suddenly, the shape of a possible future, envisioned only years after it's been thoroughly unmade. Stupid to be protective of grown adults who know what they're doing better than she can, but still.
She wants to protect them. It doesn't enter her head not to trust Stephen with it at once.
and it's not as if he's never seen her knees before. She wears trousers fitted nearly as intimate as her stockings; he'd seen most of her scars when she was discovering designer swimwear. When she flings herself down on the edge of his rumpled guest-bed, crossing her ankles, it's not even close to the most exposed she's ever been in his company.
“Adenet's the artist,” she says, holding her hand out for the bottle. “They're lovers— Chapentier's very sympathetic, and he's awfully well positioned. My sister — she never made it as far as the Marquise, but I think I might be able to pick up further than she left off, maybe.”
It had made her think of— not Thranduil, actually, but Pietro, long since disappeared back into the wilds whence he came. Suddenly, the shape of a possible future, envisioned only years after it's been thoroughly unmade. Stupid to be protective of grown adults who know what they're doing better than she can, but still.
She wants to protect them. It doesn't enter her head not to trust Stephen with it at once.
Not to put too fine a point on it, but, ( he says slowly, trying to keep his voice delicate, because the fellow with the murderous urges also looks so desperately hangdog, like a kicked puppy, ) perhaps arranging a way to tranquilise you in an emergency? There’s some magic in the entropy school which can send someone to sleep immediately. Even if they’re… hostile.
( Without being able to shoot the guy with tranquilizer, perhaps someone else’s magic would have to do. )
( Without being able to shoot the guy with tranquilizer, perhaps someone else’s magic would have to do. )
“Huh. He really doesn’t mind her taking the credit?” This is probably the least consequential part of the whole thing to be hung up on, but Stephen’s annoying about credit; had been an irritating nag about how to name the Strange-Palmer Method that he and Christine had pioneered together. Bylines. Publications. The order of names on a dissertation.
He busies himself at the sideboard, although with all the glassware having been carted away earlier, there’s nothing else to do besides uncork that bottle again. The drink is sweet, and had been used for a spirited debate with the dean earlier; people have sometimes been surprised that the doctor enjoys a sweet wine, a port, a lemon drop martini, some mai tais at the Bar With No Doors. He takes a swig from the bottle; telling himself that it’s not for actual liquid fortitude, he’s already seen so much of her, so what makes this any different at all,
and christ, he shouldn’t be so discombobulated at a pair of knees sitting on the edge of his bed. He’s clearly been in Thedas too long.
But Stephen eventually steps closer, hands her the bottle, knuckles brushing. “What do you mean, made it as far as the Marquise?”
He busies himself at the sideboard, although with all the glassware having been carted away earlier, there’s nothing else to do besides uncork that bottle again. The drink is sweet, and had been used for a spirited debate with the dean earlier; people have sometimes been surprised that the doctor enjoys a sweet wine, a port, a lemon drop martini, some mai tais at the Bar With No Doors. He takes a swig from the bottle; telling himself that it’s not for actual liquid fortitude, he’s already seen so much of her, so what makes this any different at all,
and christ, he shouldn’t be so discombobulated at a pair of knees sitting on the edge of his bed. He’s clearly been in Thedas too long.
But Stephen eventually steps closer, hands her the bottle, knuckles brushing. “What do you mean, made it as far as the Marquise?”
( He’d been girding himself for some more adverse reaction: devastation at the suggestion, some woe about the mistrust, about his callous pragmatic calculations. But Tav brightens, and Strange seems to relax slightly in relief, too — moreso about having sidestepped the social fallout. He’s dreadful at bedside manner. )
I can’t cast it myself, since my own sorcery was— altered, on arriving here, but I’ll speak to the Captain. Find out who has the capability here, or if it could be imbued into a rune for anyone to summon. I’m sure we can find some further options. Contingencies.
( Strange has more questions, but from the sounds of it, presumably he’s not the first person to have interrogated Tav already. He pauses slightly, almost jumps right into that curiosity anyway, but then relents; there’ll be time in future. He tips his head towards the disturbed earth in front of the druid. )
Speaking of magic, though…?
I can’t cast it myself, since my own sorcery was— altered, on arriving here, but I’ll speak to the Captain. Find out who has the capability here, or if it could be imbued into a rune for anyone to summon. I’m sure we can find some further options. Contingencies.
( Strange has more questions, but from the sounds of it, presumably he’s not the first person to have interrogated Tav already. He pauses slightly, almost jumps right into that curiosity anyway, but then relents; there’ll be time in future. He tips his head towards the disturbed earth in front of the druid. )
Speaking of magic, though…?
[Oh. A bit of hope is dashed and Tav's shoulders sag ever so slightly.] I agree completely if such magic is found. A rune should be given to anyone travelling with me. Until a cure is found.
[He still has hopes that somehow Cosima will find something to try that doesn't involve hurting others. At the mention of his magic, though, Tav nods and returns to the fledging sprigs of Elfroot. He concentrates, murmurs to himself, and the sprigs begin to grow, soon enough sprouting into fully grown plants, ready to be harvested.
Tav throws a smile over his shoulder.]
[He still has hopes that somehow Cosima will find something to try that doesn't involve hurting others. At the mention of his magic, though, Tav nods and returns to the fledging sprigs of Elfroot. He concentrates, murmurs to himself, and the sprigs begin to grow, soon enough sprouting into fully grown plants, ready to be harvested.
Tav throws a smile over his shoulder.]
Gwenaëlle tilts her hand rather than outright speculate that she strongly suspects there's an element of it's a sex thing as far as goes Adenet's work and Chapentier's accolades. On paper, it's hard to imagine an elf perfectly at ease with the arrangement ... on the other hand, she had never wished for anyone to know that her poetry was her own, really, in all the years they didn't. And it isn't the same,
but they have something, the two of them. She can almost reach the edges of it. His knuckles against hers break her contemplation—
“The line between servants' gossip and Marquise Briala's elven spy network is porous,” she says, instead of anything about what love is in the Orlesian political landscape. “I think moreso now, not less.” Now that she was Marquise Briala and not just the Empress's rumoured finger-puppet. Gwenaëlle bends her knee to haul one foot up onto the end of the bed, taking a swig from the bottle and working, one handed, on removing a boot. (It's sensible. She will move more quietly in the hallways. Don't overthink it.)
Her skirts ride higher, carelessly; a blade flashes at her thigh.
“Alix was never a spy. And I'm not really,” judiciously, only she might know some spies, now, and that could be very useful. With the laces of her boot undone and loosened, “If I brace, can you give that a tug?”
(She is conscientious of what his hands can and cannot do. In fact, she specifically thinks about it a normal amount.)
but they have something, the two of them. She can almost reach the edges of it. His knuckles against hers break her contemplation—
“The line between servants' gossip and Marquise Briala's elven spy network is porous,” she says, instead of anything about what love is in the Orlesian political landscape. “I think moreso now, not less.” Now that she was Marquise Briala and not just the Empress's rumoured finger-puppet. Gwenaëlle bends her knee to haul one foot up onto the end of the bed, taking a swig from the bottle and working, one handed, on removing a boot. (It's sensible. She will move more quietly in the hallways. Don't overthink it.)
Her skirts ride higher, carelessly; a blade flashes at her thigh.
“Alix was never a spy. And I'm not really,” judiciously, only she might know some spies, now, and that could be very useful. With the laces of her boot undone and loosened, “If I brace, can you give that a tug?”
(She is conscientious of what his hands can and cannot do. In fact, she specifically thinks about it a normal amount.)
Oh—
( A little bark of surprise. He’d been expecting… he doesn’t even know what, but he scoots even further forward to get a better look. In the end, Strange can’t resist the urge to just leave the bench; he joins Tav in the dirt, leaning in close to the plant to peer at it. It looks fully-grown. Harvestable. Not some shrunken anemic thing. Magical GMO, he thinks, with a huff of laughter.
With a sheepish twist to his expression, he turns, and delivers a patter of questions to Tav: )
Well, that’s deeply fascinating. Could you do that on crops, for food? What’s your magical stamina like before you peter out? Are there any other limitations to know of? Obviously we don’t want to run you ragged, but this’ll be incredibly useful to make the most of our limited space in the garden. Although I’m assuming we still couldn’t over-use the nutrients in the soil, presumably we’d still need to let some plots rest for a littl while… and it’s not like we have a full farm here, although there’s the thought we could upgrade it to a greenhouse if we can get a hold of enough glass…
( He keeps bouncing between topics, distracted by that tangent. Focus, doctor. )
Anyway. That’s remarkable.
( A little bark of surprise. He’d been expecting… he doesn’t even know what, but he scoots even further forward to get a better look. In the end, Strange can’t resist the urge to just leave the bench; he joins Tav in the dirt, leaning in close to the plant to peer at it. It looks fully-grown. Harvestable. Not some shrunken anemic thing. Magical GMO, he thinks, with a huff of laughter.
With a sheepish twist to his expression, he turns, and delivers a patter of questions to Tav: )
Well, that’s deeply fascinating. Could you do that on crops, for food? What’s your magical stamina like before you peter out? Are there any other limitations to know of? Obviously we don’t want to run you ragged, but this’ll be incredibly useful to make the most of our limited space in the garden. Although I’m assuming we still couldn’t over-use the nutrients in the soil, presumably we’d still need to let some plots rest for a littl while… and it’s not like we have a full farm here, although there’s the thought we could upgrade it to a greenhouse if we can get a hold of enough glass…
( He keeps bouncing between topics, distracted by that tangent. Focus, doctor. )
Anyway. That’s remarkable.
[Tav offers a smile at Strange's surprise. It's nice to pleasantly surprise someone for once. He releases his hands from the dirt and sits back on his heels.]
Not sure about the limitation; didn't have one back home. Think I do have one here: passed out after casting Sunbeam, a rather high-level spell. Doesn't usually happen that way. Not sure if my healing or nature skills will do the same.
[Listening to the list of projects though, earns a wider smile.]
But I'd be happy to help with all of that. I can grow plants on almost any surface: vertical, horizontal, soil, peat, whathaveyou.
Not sure about the limitation; didn't have one back home. Think I do have one here: passed out after casting Sunbeam, a rather high-level spell. Doesn't usually happen that way. Not sure if my healing or nature skills will do the same.
[Listening to the list of projects though, earns a wider smile.]
But I'd be happy to help with all of that. I can grow plants on almost any surface: vertical, horizontal, soil, peat, whathaveyou.
Edited 2024-02-23 19:16 (UTC)
Stephen’s gaze drifts inexorably downward at that shift of skirts, and snags on the sight of the knife, the garter. He’s seen them before, but in the middle of a muddy blood-stained battlefield with a Starkhaven soldier slowly dying beneath their hands, he hadn’t had much luxury to notice (or let himself notice) the way it accentuates the line of her thigh, the way it implies something deadly and viperous.
If there’s some tedious buzzkill part of his brain which wonders Gwenaëlle, why are you disrobing in my room, well, he suffocates it.
There’s enough plausible reason, anyhow. Halamshiral is further south; a little colder, and its rooftops covered in snow this time of year; she’s already swept some of it in with her and there are melting bootprints leading from the window to his bed. The part of him which embodies a tidy, finicky cat doesn’t want any more of it tracked in. So, obediently enough, Stephen closes the rest of the distance between them, remarking, “It helps to have friends in low places. Do you think they’ll come in handy? I mean, I’m assuming they’re your friends now, since you are, after all, so irresistibly charming—”
He lets Gwenaëlle brace against his shoulder as he leans down: fingers slipping between the leather of the boot and her stockings; pulling the snug boot down, dragging it off her leg.
Odd, to remember that he already knows the shape of the long ugly scarring and bite mark on her bare thigh. It had seemed like such a non-issue at the time, under crisp white impersonal showroom lights and with attendants hovering nearby to refill their drinks. He had thought it would be the same here, plus Gwenaëlle’s even more covered-up now, with layers upon layers of petticoats and thick winter dress. But this time he can feel the shape of her calf beneath his hands, the turn of an ankle and heel as he tugs the boot loose and then sets it down on the carpet. (This time, he remembers what it felt like to kiss her.)
He instinctively half-reaches for the laces of the other one, but then stops, remembering his clumsiness with eyelets and knots. He’ll wait, instead, and be a little too aware of how close he has to stand for this operation.
If there’s some tedious buzzkill part of his brain which wonders Gwenaëlle, why are you disrobing in my room, well, he suffocates it.
There’s enough plausible reason, anyhow. Halamshiral is further south; a little colder, and its rooftops covered in snow this time of year; she’s already swept some of it in with her and there are melting bootprints leading from the window to his bed. The part of him which embodies a tidy, finicky cat doesn’t want any more of it tracked in. So, obediently enough, Stephen closes the rest of the distance between them, remarking, “It helps to have friends in low places. Do you think they’ll come in handy? I mean, I’m assuming they’re your friends now, since you are, after all, so irresistibly charming—”
He lets Gwenaëlle brace against his shoulder as he leans down: fingers slipping between the leather of the boot and her stockings; pulling the snug boot down, dragging it off her leg.
Odd, to remember that he already knows the shape of the long ugly scarring and bite mark on her bare thigh. It had seemed like such a non-issue at the time, under crisp white impersonal showroom lights and with attendants hovering nearby to refill their drinks. He had thought it would be the same here, plus Gwenaëlle’s even more covered-up now, with layers upon layers of petticoats and thick winter dress. But this time he can feel the shape of her calf beneath his hands, the turn of an ankle and heel as he tugs the boot loose and then sets it down on the carpet. (This time, he remembers what it felt like to kiss her.)
He instinctively half-reaches for the laces of the other one, but then stops, remembering his clumsiness with eyelets and knots. He’ll wait, instead, and be a little too aware of how close he has to stand for this operation.
Every step makes sense in and of itself: Stephen will probably be easy to wake and alone, so finding his window rather than trying to force her own is sensible. A drink to warm and unwind is how she'd have spent this half hour at least regardless. Traipsing around in dirty boots is loud and unsubtle—
it is suddenly very obvious to her just how comfortable she's got with him at precisely the point where she finds his shoulder under her hand and cannot ignore that this is nothing like it would have been if she'd woken Lexie. The sensible thing to do at this point — she knows — is to take a breath, unlace her boot, and excuse herself the way she had been going to do. Carry her boots on quiet stocking feet back to her guest room. Try to be seen near Lexie's, if anyone's. Put this away, like she'd convinced herself that the Crossroads hadn't changed anything.
(Herein lies the problem: maybe they hadn't. Maybe they hadn't very differently to how she'd explained it away.)
She does take a breath.
“Fair warning,” very steadily, “I think I'm about to do something stupid.”
it is suddenly very obvious to her just how comfortable she's got with him at precisely the point where she finds his shoulder under her hand and cannot ignore that this is nothing like it would have been if she'd woken Lexie. The sensible thing to do at this point — she knows — is to take a breath, unlace her boot, and excuse herself the way she had been going to do. Carry her boots on quiet stocking feet back to her guest room. Try to be seen near Lexie's, if anyone's. Put this away, like she'd convinced herself that the Crossroads hadn't changed anything.
(Herein lies the problem: maybe they hadn't. Maybe they hadn't very differently to how she'd explained it away.)
She does take a breath.
“Fair warning,” very steadily, “I think I'm about to do something stupid.”
Edited 2024-02-23 20:44 (UTC)
“Oh?” Stephen asks, an eyebrow arched, nonplussed. He’s a connoisseur of doing stupid reckless shit. Tends to leap before he looks and dive into magic without reading all the instructions beforehand, and while he feels that immediate nervous leap in his chest at her statement and wondering what it means,
he’s a smart man, he can perhaps guess, but that would also be presumptuous. When, objectively and realistically speaking, there are so many other stupid things Gwenaëlle could do. She’s carrying tidings of secret elven spy meetups. Maybe it’s something about a political alliance, or planning on assassinating someone, or helping someone else assassinate someone, or otherwise simply pulling those threads of the Great Game which she hates so much, or some other extremely work-relevant mystery she’s unravelled in Halamshiral —
he’s a smart man, he can perhaps guess, but that would also be presumptuous. When, objectively and realistically speaking, there are so many other stupid things Gwenaëlle could do. She’s carrying tidings of secret elven spy meetups. Maybe it’s something about a political alliance, or planning on assassinating someone, or helping someone else assassinate someone, or otherwise simply pulling those threads of the Great Game which she hates so much, or some other extremely work-relevant mystery she’s unravelled in Halamshiral —
It isn't work.
It wasn't work.
The angle is better than it started, last time— this time she already knows where he'll be, the shape of him, and she's already holding his shoulder, he's already so close to her. She half-rises, her knee against the outside of his where she dropped it along with discarded boot, and their teeth don't crash— it's a riptide, not a collision.
She probably should have taken both of her boots off, she thinks, but what she does is put her teeth in his lip to see what happens next.
It wasn't work.
The angle is better than it started, last time— this time she already knows where he'll be, the shape of him, and she's already holding his shoulder, he's already so close to her. She half-rises, her knee against the outside of his where she dropped it along with discarded boot, and their teeth don't crash— it's a riptide, not a collision.
She probably should have taken both of her boots off, she thinks, but what she does is put her teeth in his lip to see what happens next.
It turns out it’s easier this time.
He’s surprised but not as thunderously bowled-over as before; there isn’t that awkward, painful clack of teeth against teeth; instead, it’s just Gwenaëlle rising up to meet him, folding into him like the tide dragging her in, and when she bites at his lip, he gives a sharp hiss of indrawn breath.
She’s kissed him for the second time in their lives, and what happens next is this: Stephen leaning into it immediately, with none of the wheels-turning hesitation from the Crossroads, and he bites back, teeth grazing against lip and his hand automatically winding into the tangled curly mess of Gwenaëlle’s hair.
Before, it had been a single lengthy kiss to banish a haunting; this time it’s chasing after each other, mouth and tongue and stupid decisions, Stephen having to pause to catch his breath and then simply diving back in for more. Hungry. A hunger he hasn’t felt for— years, too many years, this side of him carefully set on a shelf and then bricked up behind a wall, only for Gwenaëlle to come crashing miraculously through it.
Her face is bitterly cold from the outdoors, but his hands are warm; they both taste of honeywine; it turns out last month wasn’t about work and this isn’t, either.
He’s surprised but not as thunderously bowled-over as before; there isn’t that awkward, painful clack of teeth against teeth; instead, it’s just Gwenaëlle rising up to meet him, folding into him like the tide dragging her in, and when she bites at his lip, he gives a sharp hiss of indrawn breath.
She’s kissed him for the second time in their lives, and what happens next is this: Stephen leaning into it immediately, with none of the wheels-turning hesitation from the Crossroads, and he bites back, teeth grazing against lip and his hand automatically winding into the tangled curly mess of Gwenaëlle’s hair.
Before, it had been a single lengthy kiss to banish a haunting; this time it’s chasing after each other, mouth and tongue and stupid decisions, Stephen having to pause to catch his breath and then simply diving back in for more. Hungry. A hunger he hasn’t felt for— years, too many years, this side of him carefully set on a shelf and then bricked up behind a wall, only for Gwenaëlle to come crashing miraculously through it.
Her face is bitterly cold from the outdoors, but his hands are warm; they both taste of honeywine; it turns out last month wasn’t about work and this isn’t, either.
Immediately, it was stupid not to take her other boot off first—
maker, she doesn't care. His hands are warm and so is the rest of him, almost shockingly so as they rush together; layers of fabric and boned corsetry confine her but he'd been dressed to sleep, warm from the inside of this rumpled bedding, easy to reach. She twists her fingers in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer by it still, the hard — armored, probably — corset between them jabbing into his ribs, bending her knee so she can hitch her foot at the back of his. It feels as if it should feel stranger to do this than it does; she'd recoiled for so long from the idea of reaching for anyone (except—) and now that she's here, reaching—
No, it feels inevitable. Like they were always going to end up here, her cold hands fighting to get under fabric and find his skin, mostly because she wants to touch him but at least partly because she wants to press her cold fingers to his bare skin and make him startle, make her laugh.
It doesn't matter, in the moment, if it's a good idea or a bad idea. It's just such a relief that it's happening.
maker, she doesn't care. His hands are warm and so is the rest of him, almost shockingly so as they rush together; layers of fabric and boned corsetry confine her but he'd been dressed to sleep, warm from the inside of this rumpled bedding, easy to reach. She twists her fingers in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer by it still, the hard — armored, probably — corset between them jabbing into his ribs, bending her knee so she can hitch her foot at the back of his. It feels as if it should feel stranger to do this than it does; she'd recoiled for so long from the idea of reaching for anyone (except—) and now that she's here, reaching—
No, it feels inevitable. Like they were always going to end up here, her cold hands fighting to get under fabric and find his skin, mostly because she wants to touch him but at least partly because she wants to press her cold fingers to his bare skin and make him startle, make her laugh.
It doesn't matter, in the moment, if it's a good idea or a bad idea. It's just such a relief that it's happening.
He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment this drifted onto the track of inevitability, probably because it’s been a slow inexorable slide which had started a year and a half ago, with Gwenaëlle’s whiplash words flaying him to the bone (however funny it was to roll your eyes about picking up the wrong fork in whatever arsehole of the Fade you emerged from, whether you give a fuck about Thedas or take your new circumstances seriously or not—), her claws flexing and digging in and then leaving him contrite.
So few people are capable of making Stephen Strange feel contrite and abashed. He had taken notice.
Perhaps something had shifted underfoot when she’d done up his shirt buttons and not made a big deal out of it, and gifted him those thoughtful gloves,
or late-night tea at the Sanctum and portalling her to a nighttime beach in the tropics simply because she liked to swim,
or the two of them saving a man’s life together,
or her practically clambering into his lap, him handing her a book of Orlesian poetry he’d ripped apart a timeline to bring to her,
or any number of small intimacies they’d accidentally slipped into,
or, or, or.
It’s been an endless step after step after step to get to this point: Gwenäelle sliding her cold fingers under his shirt and Stephen jolting, interrupting the kiss to yelp against her jaw, “Jesus fucking christ,” and the laughter bubbling in the room.
“Rude,” he adds, the smile audible in his voice. And the solid edge of the corset had been uncomfortable enough that he reaches for the sleek, flattened arch of her ribcage in an attempt to even the odds, and at least get started on carving through the first of those layers to make it more comfortable for both of them, and then, well.
There’s a momentary confusion. He’s never had to fuss with the intricacies of womenswear in this time period before. His brows are furrowed in intent concentration (as if she’s a puzzle to be unravelled, which she is) as he pulls a little away, peering down in the half-gloom, hands splayed against a cage, trying to sort out how to get it off.
“—Is this armoured leather?”
So few people are capable of making Stephen Strange feel contrite and abashed. He had taken notice.
Perhaps something had shifted underfoot when she’d done up his shirt buttons and not made a big deal out of it, and gifted him those thoughtful gloves,
or late-night tea at the Sanctum and portalling her to a nighttime beach in the tropics simply because she liked to swim,
or the two of them saving a man’s life together,
or her practically clambering into his lap, him handing her a book of Orlesian poetry he’d ripped apart a timeline to bring to her,
or any number of small intimacies they’d accidentally slipped into,
or, or, or.
It’s been an endless step after step after step to get to this point: Gwenäelle sliding her cold fingers under his shirt and Stephen jolting, interrupting the kiss to yelp against her jaw, “Jesus fucking christ,” and the laughter bubbling in the room.
“Rude,” he adds, the smile audible in his voice. And the solid edge of the corset had been uncomfortable enough that he reaches for the sleek, flattened arch of her ribcage in an attempt to even the odds, and at least get started on carving through the first of those layers to make it more comfortable for both of them, and then, well.
There’s a momentary confusion. He’s never had to fuss with the intricacies of womenswear in this time period before. His brows are furrowed in intent concentration (as if she’s a puzzle to be unravelled, which she is) as he pulls a little away, peering down in the half-gloom, hands splayed against a cage, trying to sort out how to get it off.
“—Is this armoured leather?”
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