[ The party had been one more Vor gathering. One more wine soaked fanciful enthrallement of someone's house. Left over decadence that dripped on the fingers, the dressings of honour that buttoned up high and choked the throat. Writhing, messy, words that were a knife edge's fall between insult and compliment, a shifting dance of trading partner's that in the natural respect that had to be given, she lost track of Byerly in it. He had to do his rounds, his show, and she hers. Say hello to this Count or that Lady. The sword she'd worn openly for years sitting decoratively still embedded with blood between filgree at her hip as a steady reminder of the respect that she was given in turn. Pleasant, as far as evenings went.
Up until she'd ended up in conversation with someone who pushed that blade's balance. Somewhere between trying to woo her and searching through words like grasping fingertips to sink into still tender parts. As if there were parts that could still be reached. One word darts into another, and he digs and digs and digs like he means to turn up graves and when she strikes the proverbial casket - she snaps. A hand that goes straight for the sharp dig, not a woman's slap of genteel disgust, but a glass she swings and on his shoulder, a splash of red wine ( of course it's red, of course in the morning it will not be wine, they will gossip about her making him bleed right then and there ) as she juts the snapped clean stem into his chin. A reminder, then, just how what her title was built on now.
Then she drops it, drops him like he's ash and turns on her heel and without looking to see, or looking to know, she finds him because she will always find him. Her mouth set, flat, pained, but half way through a step forward to him. ]
[ She finds him, too, because he's searching for her. He's developed a sixth sense, he fancies, for when she's about to do something mad and reckless - not that he's ever able to stop her, of course; heavens no. He couldn't and he wouldn't when they were small, and he can't and he won't now. Still, he always tries to be there - to clean up, to comfort, just to witness. He does love her madness even now.
He sees the mess she's leaving behind now. His eyes flicker over the scene for consequences that will last, and (thank God) he finds none. Just some social consequences. And so he doesn't linger with the scandal and the twittering and the shock; instead he bows low in response to Lakshmi's request and turns to follow her. ]
My lady.
[ At the door he moves ahead of her, hailing them a groundcar, letting her stand impassive and impartial. When the car comes, he gets the door for her. ]
[ There is one singular joy to being what she is, after everything that caused it - it is that each and every time after these moments where they forget and she reminds them. They step out of her way. Like somehow she'd slice them if they so much brushed her. Good, let them think that. Let them part out of her way like she could cut tides. She's sure that whoever was hosting would have a thrilling time telling everyone that they had held the part where she had nearly slit a man's throat. What a highlight of the proverbial season.
Her only consolation is him, him who she's heard muttered more than once, that he always did like them a little raw to the touch. A little more inclined to hurt him.
She wraps her shawl around her a little tighter, drawing it up about herself. Her face composed flatly with the pressure of society at her back. Easily shut out and ignored when she slips into the car he's hailed down. Arranging herself and her skirts neatly around herself in habit. Before she looks down at her fingers, stained pink with the wine and holds them up for him to see when he sits beside her. ]
What a waste.
[ she presses her thumb to forefinger and drags across where the wine makes it sticky ever so slightly. ]
[ He reaches out and takes her hand. It's playful - funny, of course - nothing more than playful and funny - when he lifts her hand to his face, and flicks out his tongue, dragging it over her fingertip. He smacks his lips theatrically immediately after, the sheer ridiculousness of the sound keeping that contact from being remotely sensual. Of course.
Though...He never would have dared this if the groundcar's windows were not tinted. ]
[ And almost immediately, she laughs. Both in the warm heat of his mouth, warmer than she feels, and the ridiculousness of him trying wine off her fingers like a connoisseur. Like he couldn't bear to waste even a drop of it. ]
Byerly.
[ Where they're wet with saliva, she drags it against his cheek and stubble, cleaning it off on his skin with a little scrunch up of her nose. ]
Well, at least, I have the greatest drunk of our generation to make sure not a drop is spared.
I take offense to that! I'm not drunk, I'm just thrifty. Here, give me the next finger -
[ Swiftly, grinning, relieved at her laughter - not so furious that her humor is completely gone, and if he is good for nothing at least he is good for making her laugh - he captures her wrist and pops the next finger into her mouth. And hums thoughtfully. ]
[ That is too much, she squirms, his mouth too warm and the hum tickling up her wrist. Far be it for her to do something as undignified as squeal, but it certainly came close as she pressed a hand on his shoulder - but the telling was that she didn't yank her wrist free from his at all. The game of it a relief. It lets a tension slide out of her, nevermind that the driver carefully snatching glances in the rear vision mirror, she didn't care right now. ]
You honestly can't expect me to believe you can tell that.
[ She steels herself, twisted, at little to face him where he has her caught. A little miffed maybe, because - he shouldn't be right. She hates letting him be right, but - ]
I'm certain, I don't like cabernet that much - [ His mouth cuts her off and this time she does squeal, her face cringing away from him, at the feeling of it. ( doesn't think, that she wouldn't be like this, so jumpy, so brittle, so overworked by little things if she just let anyone else near her, anymore but - that like everything else, is something she never thinks about ). ]
Byerly.
[ but she's waiting to hear whatever he might say. ]
[ he has no business knowing her so well as he leans into her and she instinctively catches him. though it's more that her limbs wrap greedily, offering him the corners of herself to fit into. The shawl slipping down her shoulders as she leans with him. ]
Haven't I told you to stop that? You will have me arrested for treason one day.
[ She had not had more than one son, she had refused to let herself be bound again, and she had loved with all too much of herself. Nothing any member of the Vor would forgive her for. ]
Letting Vorrutyers get ideas must be chief among them.
[ His teasing, leering imitation of dissolution is spoiled when she drives her fingers into a ticklish spot. He jerks, wriggles, and gives a little yelp of surprise. ]
[ She lets out a peel of laughter, head going back to keep poking at him. No letting up even slightly for his dignity's sake, fingers quick and clever against him until she's firmly won. Because this is easy, and it's good and it costs her nothing but a way to let the snap of blistering rage into something that he wraps up easily no matter how she might blister his palms for doing so, lets him press her into something that can be held down so she doesn't have to do it herself. ]
[ He knows what he's doing, of course. She wins - drives him back, him jerking and barking with every precise poke of her fingers - but he's satisfied in her victory, because a bit of her rage is cooled. When he retreats into his corner of the groundcar, panting and holding up his hands in unconditional surrender, his smile is genuinely pleased. ]
I yield! I yield. I surrender and confess my crimes. Clemency, I beg clemency.
[ She settles back into hers. Leaning against the car door, breathless with her laughter her hand cupping against her mouth to keep try and smother the last of it. ] As you should.
[ She hums, laughs, and then shuts her eye coming up with the worst punishments she could possibly come up with. Absolutely wicked, she's sure, worthy of his bloodied ancestors. Lakshmi the Wicked, that could be her name. Tormentor of Vorrutyers. ]
[ It's the sort of ridiculous shoe a lady must where she's a good foot shorter than half the men in the room and needs to get them to meet her in the eye. Or vaguely contemplate stabbing one of them in the neck.
Once it's free, she wriggles her toes where they're caught in her stockings. Her leg arched to stretch out briefly in a content noise of finally letting herself unwind. That party far enough behind them now that she didn't care if someone was following the car, even, and was finding all sorts of new gossip. ]
Oh yes. Definitely. Like you deserve. [ Her eyes slip shut with a content smile. ] Not that I am enjoying it, of course, justice isn't enjoyed. I'm far too impartial for that.
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Heaven and hell were words to me [ ♫ ]
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He sees the mess she's leaving behind now. His eyes flicker over the scene for consequences that will last, and (thank God) he finds none. Just some social consequences. And so he doesn't linger with the scandal and the twittering and the shock; instead he bows low in response to Lakshmi's request and turns to follow her. ]
My lady.
[ At the door he moves ahead of her, hailing them a groundcar, letting her stand impassive and impartial. When the car comes, he gets the door for her. ]
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Her only consolation is him, him who she's heard muttered more than once, that he always did like them a little raw to the touch. A little more inclined to hurt him.
She wraps her shawl around her a little tighter, drawing it up about herself. Her face composed flatly with the pressure of society at her back. Easily shut out and ignored when she slips into the car he's hailed down. Arranging herself and her skirts neatly around herself in habit. Before she looks down at her fingers, stained pink with the wine and holds them up for him to see when he sits beside her. ]
What a waste.
[ she presses her thumb to forefinger and drags across where the wine makes it sticky ever so slightly. ]
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[ He reaches out and takes her hand. It's playful - funny, of course - nothing more than playful and funny - when he lifts her hand to his face, and flicks out his tongue, dragging it over her fingertip. He smacks his lips theatrically immediately after, the sheer ridiculousness of the sound keeping that contact from being remotely sensual. Of course.
Though...He never would have dared this if the groundcar's windows were not tinted. ]
A fine vintage, too. That is sad.
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Byerly.
[ Where they're wet with saliva, she drags it against his cheek and stubble, cleaning it off on his skin with a little scrunch up of her nose. ]
Well, at least, I have the greatest drunk of our generation to make sure not a drop is spared.
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[ Swiftly, grinning, relieved at her laughter - not so furious that her humor is completely gone, and if he is good for nothing at least he is good for making her laugh - he captures her wrist and pops the next finger into her mouth. And hums thoughtfully. ]
What is that, a cabernet...? No, no...
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[ That is too much, she squirms, his mouth too warm and the hum tickling up her wrist. Far be it for her to do something as undignified as squeal, but it certainly came close as she pressed a hand on his shoulder - but the telling was that she didn't yank her wrist free from his at all. The game of it a relief. It lets a tension slide out of her, nevermind that the driver carefully snatching glances in the rear vision mirror, she didn't care right now. ]
You honestly can't expect me to believe you can tell that.
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Well? You're the only judge of that. Was it a cabernet?
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No.
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[ He smacks his lips - and then goes for her hand again. ]
Here, I need another taste -
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Byerly.
[ but she's waiting to hear whatever he might say. ]
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Sorry for the offense against your honor, ma reine. Merlot, always merlot.
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Haven't I told you to stop that? You will have me arrested for treason one day.
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Why - what treason will you have committed?
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[ She had not had more than one son, she had refused to let herself be bound again, and she had loved with all too much of herself. Nothing any member of the Vor would forgive her for. ]
Letting Vorrutyers get ideas must be chief among them.
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[ He grins into her hair. ]
Only perverted ones. Don't you know that?
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Then not throwing you out of the car at a high speed must surely be it. Spare the good men and women your corruptions.
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[ His teasing, leering imitation of dissolution is spoiled when she drives her fingers into a ticklish spot. He jerks, wriggles, and gives a little yelp of surprise. ]
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I yield! I yield. I surrender and confess my crimes. Clemency, I beg clemency.
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[ Catching his breath - ]
What penance must I pay, lady?
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You can take these shoes off me, first of all.
[ Definitely the best place to start. ]
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[ He sighs mournfully as he bends over to grasp her ankle and set it in her lap. Delicately, gently, he works the shoe off. ]
And - egads - shall you force me to rub your feet, too?
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Once it's free, she wriggles her toes where they're caught in her stockings. Her leg arched to stretch out briefly in a content noise of finally letting herself unwind. That party far enough behind them now that she didn't care if someone was following the car, even, and was finding all sorts of new gossip. ]
Oh yes. Definitely. Like you deserve. [ Her eyes slip shut with a content smile. ] Not that I am enjoying it, of course, justice isn't enjoyed. I'm far too impartial for that.
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