Most residents of any given habble do not ever leave their habble. It's not that it's impossible, just wildly difficult, and unless you are a tradesman who relies on the markets of Habble Landing, there isn't much cause for most to go anywhere. Such is even the case in Habble Morning, even with the scions of the Great Houses, even the ones who might do their tour of duty for the Spirearch.
Benedict isn't like most of his peers.
He has always thought the parties were boring and pointless, and just as Ninon has observed, almost obscenely extravagant. There wasn't much he could do about them, though, except just endure them as best he could, and so once he voices his token protests, he tends to suffer through them stoically and congratulate himself when the whole ordeal is over.
Now that he attends them in his position as Ninon's bodyguard, he doesn't allow himself to be distracted by his gossiping cousin or by idle daydreams of being able to leave before the last song has been played. Now, instead, he stands at attention on the periphery of the crowd, his golden eyes focused solely on his charge, keeping track of her as she laughs at jokes and dances with hopeful men of all ages, charming each and every one without promising a thing.
He knows it's wrong, what they are doing. She is his charge, he should not allow himself to be won over by her charms. She is, quite literally, employing him (or, at least, her brother is), and as such, she should not allow herself to dally with him. And yet, as he watches her twirl through the room in the arms of some important person or other, all he can think of is how she feels in his arms, how her rib cage expands beneath his palms when she breathes in deeply after taking off her corset, the way her neck bows beneath the weight of his hand, how her pale fingers look pressing into his skin.
He's so distracted by these thoughts — some bodyguard he is — that he nearly misses the way Ninon looks at him before slipping through the open door, out into the darkened corridor beyond. Moving smoothly, Benedict weaves his way along the edge of the room and follows, because it is his duty to do so.
Not at all because of the way her eyes sparkled as she caught his eye.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2018-12-09 06:55 am (UTC)Benedict isn't like most of his peers.
He has always thought the parties were boring and pointless, and just as Ninon has observed, almost obscenely extravagant. There wasn't much he could do about them, though, except just endure them as best he could, and so once he voices his token protests, he tends to suffer through them stoically and congratulate himself when the whole ordeal is over.
Now that he attends them in his position as Ninon's bodyguard, he doesn't allow himself to be distracted by his gossiping cousin or by idle daydreams of being able to leave before the last song has been played. Now, instead, he stands at attention on the periphery of the crowd, his golden eyes focused solely on his charge, keeping track of her as she laughs at jokes and dances with hopeful men of all ages, charming each and every one without promising a thing.
He knows it's wrong, what they are doing. She is his charge, he should not allow himself to be won over by her charms. She is, quite literally, employing him (or, at least, her brother is), and as such, she should not allow herself to dally with him. And yet, as he watches her twirl through the room in the arms of some important person or other, all he can think of is how she feels in his arms, how her rib cage expands beneath his palms when she breathes in deeply after taking off her corset, the way her neck bows beneath the weight of his hand, how her pale fingers look pressing into his skin.
He's so distracted by these thoughts — some bodyguard he is — that he nearly misses the way Ninon looks at him before slipping through the open door, out into the darkened corridor beyond. Moving smoothly, Benedict weaves his way along the edge of the room and follows, because it is his duty to do so.
Not at all because of the way her eyes sparkled as she caught his eye.