warriorborn | (no subject)

Parties in Spire Albion were always quite the gilded, extravagant affair. And as the sister of the Spirearch, they require her attention and attendance. Events that are meant to build stronger relationships between the houses, council members and sometimes, habble leaders.

While she is adept at charming the guests, wearing fine dresses and smoothing over any awkwardness, she feels as though they are unnecessarily grand when there are people struggling in lower habbles. And as with most things that are required of her ( mindless duties expected of her), she finds such events dangerously boring.

So after an hour, she very purposefully makes her way towards the edge of the party, well aware that there are eyes on her at all times. But there is only a certain pair whose attention she means to attract, a pair whose job is to watch her. And after hovering by the door of the ballroom, she slinks out of the room and into one of the sculpture rooms.

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.

Ninon knows the Manor better than most. After all, she is sentenced to live her life within these walls (she is not a spoiled brat that does not understand or feel the weight of the privilege she has). She knows every corridor, every room, so well that she could navigate them in the dark. And the advantage of "dallying" with someone such as Benedict is that even if he may not know this particular dark hallway as well as she, the low light would not be a disadvantage due to his eyes.

Oh, those brilliant eyes. Eyes whose very glance thrilled and frustrated her. For one moment they may send a shiver of girlish delight down her spine (despite outgrowing such feelings years ago) and the next, his piercing, stubborn gaze may send the heat of anger through her whenever he refuses to bend to her will, her charms.

But there is one way that she has "bent" him. Although she doesn't see it that way. Of course, none of it is proper for reasons even beyond the fact that he is meant to protect her and nothing else. It was difficult to resist, he is difficult to resist and it seems he has similar thoughts about her.

So they play this game now. She does her duty then she slips out, hiding somewhere for him to find her and then... well.

She hides now, in the dark, behind a statue of some ancient man whose name she does not care to recall (but could if she were pressed). She is silent, although she does cool herself with a silk fan, knowing full well even that subtle motion will give him hint enough as to where she is, along with the gentle, rosy scent of her perfume.

Ninon is correct in her assumption that the dark would not hamper him; being warriorborn, he is blessed with excellent eye sight, and quite nearly the ability to see in all but the darkest of rooms. Even if there were absolutely no light to be found, and even Benedict and his cat-like eyes were thwarted that way, he would always be able to find her.

Some part of him would like to say that is because of some romantic notion or other, he isn't quite fanciful to come up with something suitably saccharine, but he has vague notions of reading something appropriate in one of his cousin's books, but the far larger, more practical part of himself knows that he will always find her because he can smell her even when he cannot see her, the scent of her skin and the soaps she uses dulled beneath the floral note of her perfume, but not wholly drowned out by it. Even were her perfume not made specifically for her, and therefore the only blend of its kind in the entire Spire, he would be able to pick her out of a line-up blindfolded.

As silent as a man his size has no business being, Benedict creeps into the room from which her trail emanates, his pupils expanding until they look nearly round to compensate for the darkness. He can see her easily, tucked behind some statue or other, her fan waving lazily in front of her face.

He comes up behind her, still as silent as a mouse, and bends to press his lips to the exposed plane of her shoulder.

"Found you."

It is dark in the corridor but not so dark that she cannot see and yet, she is distracted enough to be caught off guard by his approach. Despite expecting him, knowing that he would follow and find her easily, she is still surprised when she feels the warm press of his mouth against her skin. Drawing in a breath she cannot help, she is reassured that no other person could move so silently, that is not some rude guest wishing to take liberties (which has been known to happen). It is part of the reason he was chosen for this assignment, Benedict was deadly with his abilities.

She lets out an amused sound as she flicks her fan shut with a swift movement and the other hand comes up clutch the back of his neck to keep him close. "So you have," she smirks, her fingers playing with the hair at the back of his head. "I came to take some air."

If Benedict catches some guest manhandling her without her permission, he doesn't think he would be able to restrain himself from doing something he'd regret. It is his duty to protect her, but also, he is hopelessly entangled in her, and he doesn't think his professionalism would save him from acting rashly.

But as it's just his own lips touching her, he lets himself smile against her shoulder, his hands lifting to settle at her fashionably-cinched waist, pulling her closer against his front as she slides her hand into his hair.

"You might find more of it out in the gardens," he points out, though going out to the gardens would also mean leaving the dark sanctuary of the gallery, and it is also far more likely to be crowded.

It truly for the best that Benedict's patience and professionalism are not put to the test by anyone else but her. Beyond that, Ninon can diplomatically handle unruly guests, it is what she was bred to do and as a woman with experience, she knows how to get away from those unruly guests whose hands wander. There is only one set of hands she would permit to touch her. Those hands are currently pulling her closer, his breath warm as it sweeps across her skin.

"I am quite content where I am. Thank you, " she says defiantly, obviously the indignant tone is feigned. She is quite content to have his hands on her after having to pretend all night that she did not desire such a thing. It was only a few days ago that he'd had his very distracting hands and mouth on her in that very ballroom as she tried to memorize the names of all the guests. And soon enough, it had only been his name on her lips.

"I much prefer it here." There is a slight vulnerability in her voice when she says that, the guise of teasing dropping for just a moment as she speaks the absolute truth for only him to hear. But she returns to form by giving his head a playful tug. "Although I am feeling cold." Says the woman who was, only moments ago, fanning herself.

"Then let me warm you," he breathes against her skin, turning his head slightly to press a scattering of kisses along the line of her neck, up to the sharp line of her jaw, as his hands slide about her waist so he can fold his arms about her properly, keeping her trapped against him.

He knows she's lying about being cold, as not only had she been fanning herself mere moments before, but he can smell her sweat beneath the powders in her hair and the perfume dabbed across her décolletage, can feel the heat of her body even through her clothes. He doesn't say anything about it, though, both to let her keep up her playful facade, but also because he knows enough about women to know that they dislike being told that they sweat and that he has noticed it.

It doesn't bother him, but he knows full well that he's a bit odd in this regard.

Ninon has had men before. She has had suitors, had men vying for her hand in marriage, influence on her brother, her love. She has even given her heart to a few of them when she was young and foolish. But there is little to compare to the way it feels to have Benedict's arms wrap around her waist, to feel the hot press of his mouth against her skin. It makes her heart skip two beats, it sends heat racing through her veins in a way no other man has been able to before.

It is for the best that he does not try to throw away her ruse and that he does not mention the scent of her sweat. She is away of his enhanced senses but it would not do her amorous mood any favors.

"Kiss me."

If Benedict ever had everything going his way, he would get to see her outside of rushed, secret moments like this. He would peel her out of her stiff finery, would pluck all the pins out of her hair, would see her with her creams and powders wiped away, just a woman in nothing but her skin and no chemicals to pollute his nose as he got near.

It is an idle fantasy, one he knows he will never see fulfilled, but it is one he holds nonetheless. He cannot help himself.

The scent of her sweat on her skin is real in a way even the finest perfumes could never be. But there is no point in trying to explain himself; Ninon is not interested in hearing how strange his proclivities are, not when they are stealing a few minutes together. Someone will notice she is gone soon enough, and even his own absence will not be enough to stop some concerned member of staff going looking for her.

To comply with her request means giving up kissing her neck, but it is a sacrifice he's willing to make, lifting one hand from her waist to coax her to turn her head to meet him as he bends to press his lips to hers.

If only he knew how wrong he was, if only he paid better attention to the way she interacted with him. In the beginning, yes, she treated him as she would have any other assigned guard. It was polite greetings and pretending he wasn't there, apart but somehow still hovering. Yes, she understood the need for security and how being reckless with her own safety could put so many others besides herself at risk. She was no longer a young girl who might try to make his life miserable, try to escape his ever-watchful eyes or him by breaking protocols.

Still, she had her own forms of protest. There were days she stayed in her rooms all day instead of attending to whatever useless rituals or duties were required of her. And as she grew more comfortable with him, she would ask his opinion on different matters or ask him of the news around the Spire, real news, from real people she may not hear. Soon enough they'd fallen into this... thing between them and she cared even more about his passions and wants, although it may seem to him that she was selfish in her pursuit of pleasure.

But he is right in thinking that this can never go further than it has. It would mean disaster for him and perhaps scandal for her, although she never really cared about scandal. Now that she'd come to care for him beyond what she should, she could not risk his reputation and honor (although she could not give this much up), both of which were in very good standing and deserved to stay so.

She turns her head easily, even without his strength, she takes his direction easily. From the beginning, there has been an equal push and pull. There are times she controls the situation completely and there are times that he does (both are equally thrilling for her). She kisses him as he grants her demand, the hand in his hair curling a little tightly, her body arching into his encouragingly.

For as sad it as it might sound or for as empty as it may make her life seem... these stolen moments are all that get her through the day sometimes.

At the beginning, he had tried to be as unobtrusive as possible to keep from making this any more difficult for her than it had to be. Constantly being watched by someone being paid to do so cannot be fun for anyone, but it was necessary, and so he was determined to do his duty even though she probably hated it.

Eventually, they grew close enough to be friendly with each other, until he was able to sit in her rooms and idly read a book while she did the same across the room, both of them cordially ignoring each other with the kind of silent camaraderie he rarely gets to enjoy in the chaos of his own home.

When they started their dalliance, Benedict had been a clueless, virginal boy, barely even kissed let alone properly bedded. None of the girls of his acquaintance were interested him in such a fashion, either because of his warriorborn status or because they were his blood relatives.

His posting as Ninon's guard has been eye-opening in many respects.

Despite the nearly sub-vocal rumbling that vibrates in his chest, Benedict's kiss is soft and gentle in sharp contrast to the way she fists at his hair, tugging at him demandingly. He is always gentle with her, far too aware of his own strength, wanting to avoid hurting her in any way.

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?"