warriorborn | (no subject)

It can be frustrating to be... well, her. Her situation was singular and stands out amongst others in terms of complications. Her life has never been her own and when she was assigned a personal guard like Benedict after years of having her own sort of autonomy since the death of her husband, it was a blow to her highly valued independence.

In the end, it had turned out better than she could have expected, although it could still end poorly if they are not careful.

Speaking of careful, he is always so damn gentle in all things with her, even when he makes his demands, they come out as requests even when he's cross with her (which has probably been known to happen). So despite the roughness of her actions, he keeps the kiss sweet.

"Like you mean it," she commands softly against his mouth, always trying to coax him towards something more, always edging towards a little danger. For all the moments they've stolen together, he always stops it before it can get really interesting or something stops it for them.

And it's getting harder to deny herself.

"I do mean it," he insists in a quiet murmur, careful of his teeth as he kisses her. If he didn't mean it, he wouldn't be so careful with her. She is precious to him, for all that she would probably laugh if he told her how he felt. She is a woman grown, older than he by some years, and has no need of someone treating her like she is fragile and delicate. And yet Benedict finds himself doing so in the most inopportune moments, unable to help himself.

Perhaps it is just as well that they are continuously interrupted. He cannot make too much of a fool of himself when he is not able to let all the ridiculous thoughts in his head tumble out past his lips.

His hands settle at her waist again to turn her in front of him, until they are facing each other properly, allowing him to slide his arms about her in a snug embrace.

Ninon is no virgin nor does she want to be treated as some kind of delicate flower. Fragile is not the word others would describe her. And while he is meant to look after her, she sometimes grows frustrated at how carefully he treats her. She may not know the full extent of his strength, she does know that he has it in abundance, more than any other man she's met.

But there are moments, rare moments, that she says the side of him, the dangerous side. It excites her in ways she knows to be cliche.

Still, his murmured insistence does tug at her heart in a way she should ignore. And when he turns her around to face him, she hums softly, hands running up his chest. "I am glad you do," she says, meaning it before she kisses him again, pressing herself against him a bit more.

Benedict is a virgin. Perhaps that is one of the reasons he is so hesitant with her: he doesn't know what he's doing. He isn't entirely sure if Ninon is aware of his lack of experience, either. Once upon a time, she asked him if he had a lover currently, and he had truthfully told her that he hadn't, but he also hadn't elaborated and said that he had never had a lover.

At this point, he feels like he cannot confess, things have gone too far. Either they will never lie together before their lives part ways, or he will have to keep silent about his own inexperience simply for the sake of his dignity.

She pulls herself closer, her hands on his chest, and Benedict sinks into her kiss, forgetting to pay attention to the rest of the world around them as he half-turns them both so he can trap her between the wall and his body, one arm leaving her waist to brace against the wall he is not crushing her.

Ninon made the assumption that despite the unjust prejudice against warriorborn and the stigma around them, the girls of Spire Albion would be throwing themselves at a handsome fellow such as Benedict. He was handsome as he was courteous and kind. Plus his body was nothing to turn your nose up at.

Ninon has, of course, overestimated the other women in their world. And when she finds out that he is abstinent but not by choice, she will think them all fools. More than she already does (something she desperately wishes to fix).

As he presses her against the wall, a half-moan escapes her lips, the other half muffled by his mouth as they settle in the position and he sinks into the kiss. One hand stays tangled in the fabric of his shirt as the other moves to take the hand not braced against the wall and guide up the curve of her body, to her breast.

Celibacy was both a choice and a necessity, but that doesn't mean he particularly enjoys it. He has the same urges any young man has, and the fact that he spends nearly the entirety of his waking hours in the presence of a beautiful woman who, for some reason, seems to want to kiss him tries even his own much-lauded patience.

Especially when she does things like take one of his big hands in her own and slides it up her bodice, to the curve of her breast where it swells above the firm bones of her corset.

He doesn't moan, managing to swallow back the urge, but his throat clicks audibly as he does so, and he has a feeling his ears are growing red. He doesn't take his hand away, but he does hesitate. What is he supposed to do? He doesn't want to...squeeze too tightly, what if he hurts her? But she put his hand there herself, so she clearly wants him to touch her, expects it to be pleasurable. Bracing himself for making a complete and utter fool of himself, he instead traces his fingertips lightly over the skin just above the neckline of her bodice, feeling the lace beneath his fingertips bend as he brushes past it, her skin warm beneath his questing touch.

She cannot fathom that he would be chaste looking as he does so it would surprise her to know otherwise. For now, she assumes that whatever hesitation he shows is due to the relationship they are meant to have, that he is crossing a professional line.

The sound he makes, however subtle, is intoxicating. It sends a tingle along her skin and up her spine, even if he takes a moment to follow her lead. It seems that he's overthinking things but before she can encourage him with any sort of action, he runs her fingers over the exposed part of her chest, the touch lighter than she wants. And yet, it sends another shiver through her, a delighted one.

Her eyes flutter and she hums softly, deciding that perhaps he has his own ideas of how to touch her.

The shiver and her hum are both excellent reactions, so he allows himself to do it again, stroking his fingers over the swell of her breast and memorizing the way her warm skin feels beneath his fingers. Growing a little bolder, he settles his palm over the curve of her breast as she had done at the beginning, figuring that he's doing alright so far, and allows himself to tighten his hand slightly, feeling the give of her flesh in a way that sends yet more heat to his face.

Abruptly, he pulls away from her, his hand dropping from her breast and his head lifting away from hers, turning towards the door, every line of his body alert. Instinctively, he has shifted to shield her body with his, blocking the view of anyone who might be peeking in, but no matter how much he stares at the doorway, his eyes sharp and his breath all but still, whatever sound he heard moves away and they are not discovered.

He sighs, relaxing, and takes half a step away from her. "My apologies."

Just as things were getting good, just as his hand covered her frustratingly clothed chest... he pulls away. She cannot stop herself, she cannot quiet the soft noise of protest that leaves her lips when he moves so suddenly away from her. He turns his back and suddenly she's left out in the cold, figuratively speaking.

She knows why before she can even ask. He undoubtedly heard someone coming, his senses seemed to work even when she aimed to distract them. She waits with bated breathing, readying an excuse in her mind to present to whoever stumbles upon them. But no one comes.

And then he steps further away from her, earning himself a frown from her. "And why are you moving away from me if we have the all clear?"

There is very little Benedict wants more than to step back in close to her, to press her into the wall once more, to slide his hands back onto her body and to press his lips to hers. But, if there is one thing Benedict is adept at doing, it is denying himself the thing that he wants more than anything, and so despite her protestations, he doesn't sidle back into her personal space and kiss her again.

Instead, he lifts a hand to rake his hair back away from his face, willing the blood to settle in his veins.

"You will be missed, Ninon," he replies evenly, licking his lips and looking away.

No one will notice nor care that he is missing, but the sister of the Spirearch, his de facto heir unless a child is produced, will surely be looked for the moment her absence is noticed and commented upon.

It has to be clear that his reply is not one she wants to hear. For a woman grown, she can be as petulant as any child when denied what she desires most. Benedict is as good at denying her himself as he is protecting her. And she would never dare force his hand.

"No one that matters to me will miss me." Her brother would be too busy, her few friends care not if she disappears, they know she has her whims. She lets out a frustrated breath, tugging at her gown to shift it back into place. "If that what you think is best..." Although it might sound more like If that is what you want... "So be it."

In this, she is just like all the other high-born ladies of his acquaintance: too used to the world bending to their whims to tolerate its refusal to do so with good grace.

Still, she does not press the issue, and Benedict finds himself torn between gratitude and regret for it.

"You matter to all of them," he points out, knowing she resents the fact but also knowing that it is the truth. Ninon is more important to the Spire than she seemingly realizes, or wishes to acknowledge, and as such, she cannot ever do only what she wishes to do.

He catches her hand as she tugs at her bodice, folding his large fingers around her soft skin, and lifts her palm enough that he can duck his head down to press a kiss to the center of it. "You matter to me," he adds gruffly, embarrassed to be so forthright.

Hopefully that confession will mollify her somewhat.

He can take solace in the fact that her behavior could be much worse. She could have thrown a fit or had him dismissed for not catering to her demand. His words displease her but she does not stomp her foot or demand she have her own way. She simply frowns at his statement of facts and knows what he says is true.

She matters to many, she is one person away from ruling. She wants nothing to do with such things, like every other bird trapped in a gilded cage, she longs to be free to do what she pleases. Ninon wants to use her influence and intelligence to do more, to help others, especially the women of the Spire. Before her mind can wander into a childish spiral of dispair and woe-is-me, he takes her hand, capturing her full attention.

Ninon watches him kiss her palm with half-lidded eyes, feeling shaken by his admission and warmed as well, her cheeks and chest flushing once more. She presses her luck, as she always does: "Is that because I may become Spirearch someday? Or is it nothing to do with that?"

Still bent over her hand, Benedict lifts his eyes to meet hers, the golden irises nearly swallowed up by his pupils to compensate for the low light, but still glimmering regardless.

"Ninon," he chides lowly, feeling somewhat amused despite himself. It is just like her to push his boundaries as she does, and even though he should find it irritating, he has been worn down through long exposure to Gwen and her similar penchant to make him uncomfortable for comedy's sake. It is almost comfortable, now.

"Your becoming Spirearch would mean nothing to me." Both because he honestly does not care if she becomes the ruler of the Spire, and also, because he is warriorborn. Even if she did become Spirearch, that wouldn't change the fact that he is what he is, and she is what she is, and this is all they could ever have together.

If she became Spirearch, though, she would have to remarry and have children, or the line would cease, and there would be a civil war amongst the Houses to determine who would rule next. It would be absolute pandemonium, and there would be no place for him at her side as anything more than a gauntlet and a sword to protect her and her children.

Those eyes, those eyes, those eyes.

For a moment, she is lost in them even as he says her name in that amused way he does, when she's being tiresome and just about to cross the line but he's tolerating it for now. But when she truly hears what he's said, she lets it sink in. In her position, there are very few that could say what he did and mean it. Not even her brother could say such a thing. It mattered to everyone around her, even herself.

The world would change around them for so many reasons if it were to ever come true and with rumblings of strife and unrest, who knows if it might... She does not think of what she will have to do, how she would need to find an advantageous husband or how she might need to produce a few heirs... She thinks only of how the world would be nothing but chaos and she'd need him by her side for more than just protection.

It's a thought that she's never had before and it makes her see him in a different light. She hides it well, she smiles at him, her tone suddenly teasing and playful as she takes a step forward --"Are you sure? It would mean I could send away all distractions. Keep anyone from entering my chambers..."

Something strange flits over her face, a brief moment of expression that he has trouble deciphering, but then she is all coy and flirtation once more, and he lets the worry slide away. It is easier to focus on the moment than fret about a brief grimace that he cannot quite parse.

"If you think you will have a moment's privacy as Spirearch," he retorts, sounding overtly amused now, "then you have not been paying much attention to your brother's trials and tribulations."

Even if Ninon did send away all her servants, even if she did bar anyone from entering her rooms, that wouldn't mean they wouldn't know what she is getting up to behind closed doors. Members of staff clean her sheets, after all, and all her clothes, and there would be people guarding the doors or even just passing by. It would be common knowledge that she was bedding her bodyguard, and the scandalous information would eventually slip from household staff into the world at large, and there would be no containing it.

Benedict slinks away from her flirtations and enticements once again, making a sound point about the Spirearch's lack of privacy. He focuses on the impracticality of her fantasy instead of going right along with it. If it's because he's always so incredibly sensible or because he lacks the imagination required to picture himself tangled up in bed with her, she isn't quite sure.

She rolls her eyes, amused as she gives him a gentle push on his arm. "You're no fun."

He chuckles quietly, lifting one shoulder in a laconic shrug.

"That's why I was chosen to guard you," he says, his tone so mild it's impossible to tell if he is making a joke or not. "I was once a monk, after all."

That is not quite true. He was a novitiate, hadn't quite gotten around to taking his vows yet, but he was almost all the way to becoming a proper monk at the Temple, dedicating his life to the study of the Way and good deeds done to benefit the community.

"I still find that hard to believe," she teases him softly, even if that is far from the truth. It makes complete sense that he would be a monk, given his ability to be both serene and brooding. It would be fitting if he were every to take the vow s of the monks.

"Selfishly, I prefer you here with me."

As a monk, he would certainly never have had the opportunity to sneak away with a beautiful woman, to put his hands on her and to kiss her. There were nuns at the Temple, of course, but they too had dedicated themselves to The Way, and took the same vows the monks did.

Besides, any dalliance with a nun would not allow him the opportunity to run his fingers through soft golden hair: the nuns shaved their heads just as the monks did. Simplicity and equality was the name of the game at the monastery, after all.

He rubs his thumb over the edge of her palm, and smiles at her. "As do I." Even if this is all he can ever have with her, he is still glad for the opportunity to have it.

"Besides," he adds, smirking. "I have been reliably informed that saffron is not flattering to my complexion."

How boring her life would be without him. It was more than just the passionate kisses and stolen touches. His companionship on a day to day basis was invaluable to her. It was rare that she felt as though she could speak her mind freely without judgment or rather, disapproval from others.

There are days he lets her ramble on about ideas and thoughts in her mind, things she longs to do, things she wishes her brother would do, changes and improvements she wishes to foster. She desires his company in the emotional/mental sense even more than she does in the physical.

"Oh, I think it would look rather lovely with your eyes. It's your hair I would miss," she says as she reaches up to run her fingers through it with her free hand. "How would I pull you in to kiss me without it?"

He likes to listen to her speak. Her mind moves at such a rapid pace, always churning one thought or other over and over again, that it truly is fascinating to listen to her ramble on about her ideas and plans. Also, he knows she enjoys that he listens to her, and so he does so happily, both because it is interesting to hear her thoughts, and because his simple act of listening makes her happy.

All he ever wants is for her to be happy.

"You think wrong, my lady," he murmurs, those eyes closing briefly as she pushes her fingers through his hair. "I'm sure you could find something else to grab."

"Only if you would permit me," she murmurs low, doing exactly as she said before, drawing him back in towards her, wanting to give him another series of kisses before he resigns them both to a night of boredom at the party.

She wants him happy too. But more than that, she finds herself wanting him. Just him.

He doesn't reply, simply allows her to drag him down to her level so she can kiss him once more, his hands settling of their own accord back at her waist to hold her close to him.

It should be obvious that he would permit her to do nearly anything to him, had he the freedom to do so.

As it stands, despite the sensible part of himself that is clamoring at him to return them to the party before someone notices their absence and goes looking for them, he allows her to distract him with sweet kisses, a soft slip of a sigh seeping out of him as his eyes close.

She knows that relenting, contented sigh well by now. She is so very good at getting it out of him, after all. Humming softly into the kiss, she pulls herself closer to him now that his hands are at her waist and he's not trying to get them back to the party. For the moment.

Compromise is important. So after a few more kisses, soft and sweet and encouraging, she pulls back just enough to speak. "Shall we go back to the party or stay here a little longer?"