So no pressing the discussion of Nevarra just yet, then, [is probably a thought better reserved rather than spoken, but if she is asking for ease then this is what it warrants from him - throwaway remarks regarding how a thing might be reassembled.
Flint breathes an amused huff into his cup, drinks, and then leans briefly away from the warmth of her to set the glass aside on the narrow side table with all it's miscellany assemblage-slash-fire hazards of books and candles and now ladies' hairpins. When he shifts back to her, it is to touch her side - broad calloused hand at pale skin, thumb idle at the point of her hip.]
( despite herself, it makes her laugh—rueful, sinking deeper yet into the bedding as if it might close over her and spare her going back to the work that she can barely be drawn away from most days. )
If you wish to whisper me sweet nothings of Nevarra, ( droll, and sliding her fingertips from his knuckles up the slope of his bare arm, ) I'll not say no.
( or anything else. tell her your secrets, flint, it's probably fine. but she says on, )
It is my instinct to be at ease with you, ( to trust him, she means but will not say, ) and I study the shape of that very carefully.
( the shape of him, too. and this. but it is a frank thing, and not the musing of someone experiencing regret. )
[The wandering line of her hand warrants a further collapse—his turning nearer, settling closer. He comes to rest either over or against her or some combination of the two, propped up on an elbow as his thumbs traces absently over her pale skin.]
Do I seem so untrustworthy?
[He isn't serious; that much is evident in every line of him, and especially in the slant of his mouth. The curve in his timbre. I understand, he might say instead, but that must be obvious.]
( she tips her head, studying him with openly trouble-making thoughtfulness from this slightly-beneath-him vantage point, blonde hair spilled behind her on his pillow and a warm flush still lingering in her skin.
[Her laugh in that darkened room, all slashed through by moonlight, seems like a warm thing. The crooked line of his mouth widens behind his whiskers in reply, slow and smug and something roguish in that glint of teeth.
That self satisfied smirk is still firmly in place as he shifts by those narrow degrees necessary to—] Hazards of the profession. [—kiss her.]
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no subject
Flint breathes an amused huff into his cup, drinks, and then leans briefly away from the warmth of her to set the glass aside on the narrow side table with all it's miscellany assemblage-slash-fire hazards of books and candles and now ladies' hairpins. When he shifts back to her, it is to touch her side - broad calloused hand at pale skin, thumb idle at the point of her hip.]
no subject
If you wish to whisper me sweet nothings of Nevarra, ( droll, and sliding her fingertips from his knuckles up the slope of his bare arm, ) I'll not say no.
( or anything else. tell her your secrets, flint, it's probably fine. but she says on, )
It is my instinct to be at ease with you, ( to trust him, she means but will not say, ) and I study the shape of that very carefully.
( the shape of him, too. and this. but it is a frank thing, and not the musing of someone experiencing regret. )
no subject
Do I seem so untrustworthy?
[He isn't serious; that much is evident in every line of him, and especially in the slant of his mouth. The curve in his timbre. I understand, he might say instead, but that must be obvious.]
no subject
( she tips her head, studying him with openly trouble-making thoughtfulness from this slightly-beneath-him vantage point, blonde hair spilled behind her on his pillow and a warm flush still lingering in her skin.
she laughs. )
You are conspicuously untrustworthy.
no subject
That self satisfied smirk is still firmly in place as he shifts by those narrow degrees necessary to—] Hazards of the profession. [—kiss her.]