travelerscurse | (no subject)

(no subject)

It's not until everything goes quiet that Gustavain realizes anything is wrong.

Before that, it's just battle, one opponent after the next, call the Light to his fingertips and send it lancing out to a foe or to heal an ally. Again. Again. Again. Everyone thinks of such things in terms of their beauty, but for him, the Light has only ever been brutal in his hands, even his healing being too quick, too desperate, for subtlety and grace. He doesn't mind. War isn't beautiful.

But when the last soldier falls (and he's tried to keep as many of them just injured instead of dead as he can, but it's hard when they won't stay down) that he realizes that he might not have to worry about whether or not he's killed them afterall, because out in the frigid cold, they might all be dead, himself included. The world goes quiet-- it's just him and the ruins and the trees and the snow and his labored breathing before he pulls his scarf hurriedly up over his face to conserve warmth. Where is he? How far as he gone from the fighting? He doesn't panic, but his brain is quickly turning over his situation and how best to resolve it, ears straining against the muffling snow.

And then he hears it-- first one clash of metal against metal, then another, a cry of pain from someone, and he doesn't know friend or foe but he's running towards the sound instantly, unwilling to risk it fading and losing his way again. He's expecting to find a squad from the noises, but finds only another lone warrior, fending off half a dozen soldiers, with at least another 3-4 already dispatched. His breath catches when he sees how they are dressed, what they are wielding, because oh, he knows that weapon, but there's no time to think about that now. They are outmatched by so many, even though they have fared well to last this long, and his hands gather power now as he runs.

It's probably surprising to feel regenerative magics before she even sees that someone else has joined the battle. It's probably more surprising to see what's clearly a bundled up healer run right up beside her rather than using her as cover, light suddenly lancing in all directions. The soldiers fall back a moment, seem dazed by the brightness-- giving her an opening.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The figure is slight, the claymore they're wielding as large as they are, and entirely obscured by their armor. For once, Lillian is actually grateful for how bloody warm it can get in all of this, though the armor being metal means it's actually colder than normal.

Because of course it is.

She hasn't been terribly worried about her chances, not the type to focus on odds when she could just been cutting them down, but given how they keep coming she had been starting to wonder when she might be able to catch a break. It's equal parts startling and a relief to feel her wounds healing, sparring just enough of a glance to see who has joined her. Were it any other healer, she'd yell at them to get behind her, but, well. Gustavain's face is rather well known, at this point.

Spurred on by his presence, the ferociousness of her attacks mounts again, striking down the soldiers in a way that is both wild and systematic, the darkness springing from her feet and sword a blatant contrast to the light in Gustavain's hands. It won't take long, with her strength ruined and the aid the Warrior of Light provides.

He's as much a devastating force as she is on the remaining men, even though they're outnumbered three to one. Six soldiers, even tempered ones, fighting with more zeal than their bodies can handle, just aren't enough to put the pair of them down. It's likely a bit both harrowing and exhilarating, to fight with him, and not at all because of who he is. There were a great many healers out there who were more keen to turn the tides of life against someone than keep someone alive, of course, but she's unlikely to have ever fought with one at her side quite as unrelentingly brutal about it as Gustavain is. She's unlikely to have met one quite so daring with her own life, either, but he seems to know just how to anticipate what defenses she has, when she can take more and when she can't.

Maybe it's just because he's the Warrior of Light. Maybe she's heard tales of Whitebrim.

Regardless, he fights in the heat of the battle with her and not at all from a safe distance, and doesn't seem bothered, healing his own wounds with an ease that speaks to practice, even if his garments are soaked through in red in several places by the time the clearing falls silent again. Once combat is over, however, she can almost feel the Commander settle back on his shoulders, a quiet poise that was utterly missing a moment before in the desperation of battle.

"Are you injured?" he sounds like any other healer, now, out of breath from the fight but voice calm and soothing, coming forward to look her over for wounds, even as she feels the shimmering of a small healing spell cast over her. That he isn't afraid of her makes sense, even if it's somewhat unusual for someone seeing her fight in her full glory. That he doesn't even seem phased by it might be slightly more surprising.

Frankly, it’s thrilling in a way she should be hesitant to voice, that edge between life and death so slim in the way dark knights thrive so well on. Even though it’s freezing cold, she’s separated from the camp by malms, and this being a pretty horrible situation all round, she’s having more fun than she has in ages.

The fighting stops eventually, though her eager high doesn’t fade as fast. “Nope, all good!” Her voice is remarkably perky for such a fierce fighter, and she gives the elezen a playful thumbs up. She has questions, about him, about his ease with it all, but there are others to deal with right now. “We should find shelter, though- night will just make it all the colder out here.”

Edited 2022-02-25 14:42 (UTC)

He nods at her assessment of herself, doesn't press, and washes a healing spell over his own wounds almost as an afterthought as he looks around.

"I've lost track of all the others," he admits, "I'm not sure if that was part of their plan or not. I'm sure they'll send a search party but," he shakes his head, "You're right, we won't make it that long out in the open," he pulls the hood of his coat back up, the scarf back around his face. He closes his eyes for a moment and perhaps she could be forgiven for thinking that he's using some kind of secret power that makes him the hero in so many stories.

Really, though, it's just basic conjury, a child being trained could do it. It's harder here, where the aether of the land seems fainter, where everything feels like a pull towards that insane tower, but he can sense it, the pulse of life in the ground, all the same.

"This way," he says, after a moment, "There's a stream not far from here. I don't know if there will be shelter there or not, but it seems like a good place for someone to have built one." If she has a different idea, he'll be more than happy to listen, but in the absence of that, he's headed the direction he indicated.

She doesn't really have a better idea; she saw some buildings before, but she's been so turned around by the fight that while she could probably find her way again, she doesn't really want to risk it. "Alright. Sounds like it's worth a shot, anyway." Water wouldn't be a bad thing to be near any way.

They reserve their energy through the trip, though Lillian keeps her eyes peeled for any more soldiers, a hand quick to grab up to her sword at any indication of movement in the distance. Thankfully, Gustavain's instinct and conjury prove correct, and the stream has a few houses tucked up against it- now abandoned, but not entirely bare, many of its inhabitants having no reason to think anything would change as quickly as it did.

Lillian ducks her head in to check to make sure there are no survivors in any before picking one of the houses, shutting the door behind them and the lack of wind already lessening the intense chill. "They probably had a heater in here somewhere," she says, glancing back at him, "And hopefully there's enough cerulean between the houses to get it going." Not that she knows how they work... but kicking stuff usually gets it going, right?

He's tired by the time they get there, but he soldiers onward, like always, and there's still enough of him left to go hunting for supplies and ceruleum when they do find the houses. There's a surprising amount of both between the houses-- Gustavain doesn't know the truth of it, yet, doesn't know to look, but there are no radios between the three houses-- as though they were simply abandoned and while he does think to question it, there are no questions more important than the answer of heat and food and rest while they wait for their companions to find them.

He knows how to use the ceruleum to fill the heater, at least barely, but nothing beyond that-- but between the two of them they get it working, the slightly acrid smell filling the air. He busies himself for a moment with making sure the windows and doors of the cabin aren't leaking in cold, but everything seems sturdy. It's a remarkably good find, enough that he comments on it,

"An unexpected silver lining," the room already seems a bit warmer, still uncomfortably cold but the difference is noticeable. He takes a moment, then, to study the woman he finds himself with-- or really, more her armor and weapon than the woman herself, and a question hangs heavy on his lips now that the immediate issues have been taken care of.

The only other Dark Knight he's met has been Sidurgu, though he's know that there were others in theory. He's kept his own soulstone close to his chest, a secret for the Scions, something he was more free about pulling out in Norvrandt, where darkness was looked to far more often as a friend. He has made his peace with himself about it, of course, but there's a difference between understanding that the darkness within him was a part of himself and being open to the world about the Warrior of Light having it. He hopes "Fray" would understand. He presumes by his silence he does.

"You are..." the question half sticks in his throat, but perhaps she can see at least some of the recognition in his eyes, "That weapon..."

Once the immediate issues are dealt with, Lillian takes off her helmet, revealing the pink twin-tails underneath and that the horns on her helmet weren't for show, but to protect the actual horns protruding from the side of her head. She's not quite ready to settle in yet, making a search for blankets and such and perhaps food; maybe she shouldn't be so open about that, either, but survival is a priority she's never really bothered to conceal.

She looks around at him when he starts to speak, and there's knowing in his eyes as he looks over her, over the sword still strapped to her back. "Oh-- you know what it is?" she asks, curious. Not many people do, and that's... largely for the best, she's found. She tries to stay out of Ishgard as much as possible.

He's brought back some blankets and a small amount of food from his trip to the other houses, but hasn't had time to search here, yet. There's no shame in hunting for the tools of survival-- they're both stuck out here and neither one of them is stronger than a blizzard or a night spent out in the snow.

"I..." there a million ends to that sentence, and Gustavain isn't in the habit of lying when he has no real reason to, but something twists in his throat and he gives the simplest, if not the most accurate explanation, a least to start with, "... grew up in Ishgard."

He's not looking at her like she's a heretic, though, but rather with a fascination he's not doing anything to hide.

"Oh." She can't help but frown a little at that answer, looking over him. Given that context, she's really not sure what to do with that level of fascination, other than getting the impression that there's a little more to it than that. Sure, Ishgard has been getting worked up over everything and reforming and all that, but nothing changes that quickly. Especially since, like Sidurgu, she hits two separate distastes of the old ways.

Her gaze is sharp, but eventually she just shrugs and goes back to what she was doing. "The answer is yes, but I'm guessing you already figured that out." And she can't tell what other followups he might have, so she's going to make him actually ask.

Well, he is technically the khagan, winner of the Nadaam. While such things mean little and less to her own people, she would know enough to know the horns are not likely to be the reason for his fascination, Ishgardian or no.

"How?" it's not an unkind question in the slightest, still said with that tone of a kind of wonder, "I... was given to understand such while such jobstones were not lost so much as scattered, ones with the power to teach such a discipline were... rare."

Singular, actually, but if she doesn't actively know about Sidurgu, he won't be the one to betray that confidence. He wouldn't put it past the bastard to have taught someone else and just never said a word to him about it.

And if she learned our way?

He doesn't have an answer for that, not even in his own head.

Lillian turns enough to stick her tongue out at him, scrounging up a few blankets from a chest and letting it shut when it's empty. "None of your business!" she says, and the response sounds way too cheery and teasing to be serious, but if he's watching her eyes there is a glint to them that says she is deadly serious. It's much of the same logic as he has, really. If she had a teacher, would she out them? If she learned the other way, why would she tell the Warrior of Light?

If he's not going to trust her, then why would she trust him?

Though she's definitely not going to divulge her secrets to him just like that, the cheerful bounce to her step and the little hum she has going under her breath are not really an act either, coming over to offer a blanket and a cushion and setting a pot on top of the heater. She has no idea if that will actually work to boil water, but she can hope.

His eyes narrow at that in a way that suddenly, abruptly matches the glint in her own. It's not exactly threatening, but there's a shift in the air between them sharp and sudden enough that it's a wonder there's not a physical cracking sound.

Who are you to deny us?

But there's only the glimpse of it as she turns and by the time she turns back around, his demeanor has changed yet again, something pensive sitting on his shoulders as he stares for a moment at his hands on the small table. There's nothing external to even attempt to guess at his thoughts with, but it's clear the conversation has more import to him than simply idle conversation. He takes the blanket with a tilt of his head in thanks, wrapping it around himself and then, some decision reached, he finally speaks again,

"You don't have to say," his tone is gentler, now. Absent is the previous curiosity. This is not an attempt to convince her, this is something being said on it's own, "But you should know that it is, perhaps, at least a little my business." He shifts his hands and leaves his own jobstone on the table, raising his gaze steadily to meet hers.

She can almost feel the energy coming off of him, and though he might not be able to see it from his angle, she grins, something almost feral to it. She was raised with the intent to be a proper lady in Doma, polite and sweet and gentle, and as an affect it stuck. But there was no way to write over who she is, who she has always been, and for her embracing the darkness wasn't the hard part, but taming it. Even though she'd fought out in the cold for hours, should be exhausted down to her bones, that spark has her ready to fight all over again.

She waits for him to speak, something almost expectant in her stance. It's clear he's brought all this up for a reason, it's just she doesn't know what it is and isn't really in the mood to try and sort it out. So she stands there, hands on her hips as the room continues to warm up, until he finally gets to the point.

"See, that makes more sense," she says, pointing a finger at him, nothing accusatory, more with an air of 'why can't people just say what they mean.' She smiles again, reaching up to fix her twin-tails after discarding her armored gloves. "I found the job stone when I came to Eorzea," she says simply, "After a while I ran into some else who had one, and they helped me refine my skills a bit more before we parted ways." So... not entirely dissimilar to Gustavain's experience, though she makes no mention of her own 'Fray.' (But really, would he?)

"You're not the only person who knows. But you're the only person who would understand what they know," he says simply, "Forgive me for not knowing how to best broach the subject," he picks the jobstone up and settles it back into a pocket somewhere, "It's not something that I need associated with the 'Hero of Eorzea' for reasons I'm sure you understand." It's partially the darkness aspect, but it's also, as well she knows, that there are things Dark Knights do in the shadows so that people like him can walk in the light. Perhaps keeping it a secret helps the Warrior of Light, but he keeps the secret more to protect the Dark Knight side of the coin, to save himself a place in the shadows.

"Would you care for assistance with your armor?" he's clearly putting the conversation at least somewhat behind him, behind them both, for the moment.

"Mm, that makes sense." She still thinks he could have just said it, when he so clearly knew that she was one, but Lillian has little patience for politics and nuance and she's pretty sure that those are the real reasons he didn't speak up to start.

The room is finally starting to be warm enough that taking it off won't doom her to freezing, so she nods. "Yes please~" It's not impossible to undo herself, but there have definitely been nights where it's been too much trouble to deal with before passing out into bed, and that seems like a bad plan right now.

It's less about politics or politeness and more about literally not knowing what to say, how to get into it. He's being fully honest about it, not hiding behind another veil, not here-- he's never told anyone before and he genuinely didn't know how she would feel about it. But he supposes he should have expected her disinterest, knowing Sidurgu. He wonders if not caring about anything is a Dark Knight trait and then wonders all over again why he's been given one.

Still, better to busy oneself in activity, right? So he stands and moves to assist her with the bindings. Her specific armor is not one that's familiar to him, but he generally knows how to remove similar fastenings and works in a meditative silence on them unless she interrupts him.

For her pauldrons and the top straps of her breastplate, that's easier standing, though he has to stoop with their height differences, but he takes a knee to work the rest, gracefully, his mind mostly on the work.

Lillian is curious how he came onto the path, but in the end it sort of doesn't matter. The stone would not have accepted him were he not capable of walking it, or at least, if he wouldn't hold himself to their ideals. That's enough for her, for now. With more time, maybe she'll want to know more.

She waits until she feels it loosen enough that she can remove it, slipping it off to reveal the slim frame underneath. She's strong, there's no doubt about that, but she could also easily blend into a crowd without her armor (or even with it glamoured over) which is almost certainly a helpful trait. She turns back to him while he's still on his knees, unable to help the curve of her lips. He looks good like that.

"Thanks~" she says, almost instinctively leaning down to drop a little kiss on his head. She still had some layers on under the armor, but they're tight, conforming to her body without restricting movement to allow her as much freedom in the bulky armor as possible. It also has the effect of showing off every one of her curves, which Gustavain will definitely have the chance to appreciate from his current position.

He's working on the straps for her leg armor, will start working on her boots, and everything has just been done with the practiced hands of a soldier. She isn't the first person he's taken armor off of or stood still to be helped, himself, and it's entirely perfunctory on his part-- right up until it isn't.

He glances up at her, midway through a buckle, startled, when she kisses the top of his head and the motion draws his eyes up her body in a way that feels less like he's leering and more inevitable. Which is then that she learns that it's possible to make the Warrior of Light, Ender of the Dragonsong War, Savior of Eorzea blush in a soft spray across his cheeks, before he ducks his head again to continue his work on her leg armor and greaves.

"Ah... you're welcome," he doesn't seem nervous or uncomfortable, but she has very clearly thrown him a bit.

Oh, that's fun. Making strong men and/or women blush like that is one of her favorite things. There's a little smirk on her face as she stills again, waiting for him to finish up the rest of it.

With the doors and windows sealed shut, and the doors to the of the house close to concentrate the heat to this room, it's finally becoming an acceptable temperature. Putting the rest of her armor aside, she turns to look him over, taking him in. "You probably shouldn't stay in all that, either," she says, eyeing the blood all over him. Sure, they're robes, but anything worn for battle is not generally comfortable to rest in.

"I wasn't planning on it, but I've been a bit busy," he quips back, rising back up to his feet as he does. He sheds out of the heavy layers on top easily, leaving him in his usual white battle garb, a soft glow coming from the fabric itself as he reveals it. But while that's at least a little better and the fabric looks soft and comfortable, it's still heavier and he shrugs out of the top piece at the very least, along with his gloves, which leaves him in a soft, long-sleeved shirt in the same purple-ish blue as the inside fabric of the top. It's only a little lower than his waist, clearly intended just to keep the sweat off the inside of the other garment, which means that she's got a much better view of what else he typically wears under the longer top than most people bother to think about.

The answer is a pair of frankly tiny shorts, though they cover everything they need to without being particularly obscene about it, with leather straps at the bottom that either seem designed to hold the shorts down or possibly to hold his socks, still under leather thigh boots, up. They're perfectly acceptable to downright tame underneath the longer healer's coat, but they seem a bit scandalous like this, somehow. That and she can see quite a bit of his thighs even while the rest of him is covered.

He doesn't seem to really notice or care, and he moves to sit down to work on his own boots after apparently testing that the air is, in fact, warm enough to bother disrobing more.

She laughs a little at the comeback, leaving him to it for the moment. Not that she doesn't look; she just busies herself with the pot, which thankfully has been heating up, and taking in the view when the Warrior of Light is busying himself with further disrobing. She puts some tea she found in the pot to let it steep, putting it back on the heater after filling two cups, setting one by Gustavain and the other cupped in her hands as she kneels onto the floor, sitting back on her heels in the Doman fashion. Their situation could certainly be worse, though as she looks around she does have to wonder about it.

"There's still plenty in here," she says curiously as she sips the drink, the warmth and hydration both doing her good, "Seems like no one expected anything to happen."

He's perhaps not the most attractive person she's ever seen-- not in a world of sexy cat and bunny boys and broad, muscular highlanders. But he's somehow both boyishly attractive and a bit ethereal at the same time, which is a novel enough combination that it's interesting to just watch him, if nothing else, and he's easy enough on the eyes while she does.

There's something sharp and wary about his gaze when she moves to the teapot, and he holds off on his boots so he can watch her like a hawk while she pours, but his smile and voice are warm when she brings the cup over to him,

"Thank you," he wraps his fingers around the cup, but he doesn't drink until she does. It's very, very subtle, she'd never notice if she, herself, wasn't trained in etiquette, though it's hard to tell whether he's following etiquette or fears being poisoned with the combination of things. Either way, he draws no attention to it beyond that, and he does drink, so she must have done something to satisfy that.

"It certainly seems that way. Or that they weren't given much time to leave. Even so, I would expect some kind of turmoil. One of the houses had some small amount of disarray, but not what I would have expected of a fleeing person, even one without time to grab anything but what they carried."

Lillian may not have been allowed around ninjas proper as a youth, but she definitely knows they existed and definitely is aware of subterfuge and sabotage as a thing that might be worth worrying about. In this case, however, she's less insulted and more kind of amused that he'd watch her so closely. Poison would not at all be her method of trying to do someone in.

Lillian nods, looking around the room once more. "It looks more like they just got up and... left," she says, "Not evacuating, more like... they went out to the yard to do something and then never came back." It's odd, and a bit eerie when thought about too hard.

"We were fairly certain that at least some soldiers were tempered, before. I suppose it's possible they could have conscripted normal people as well. But how? And why? Even without their will intact, being tempered doesn't convey any special powers. They wouldn't have fighters, just tempered civilians. And that still doesn't explain how. It seems a poor use of resources, to drag a primal out here just to capture a few farmers."

He takes a slow sip of his tea, goes back to working his boots off until he reveals that, indeed, the straps on his pants are at least in part to hold his socks up. He could fight just as easily naked as a white mage, so he's not particularly concerned about getting comfortable once it's been established that's what they're doing, settling in for the night, or at least for long enough to get warmed up and have their layers dry.

"It seems more likely they were conscripted, but it seems odd that they wouldn't bring more, or close their houses up." Or that there wouldn't be children. He doesn't voice that, though, because he can think of no alternative where he likes the answer to the question of where the children are, and he would like to sleep this evening.

"Can you hear anything on yours?" he says, indicating his linkshell and somewhat changing the subject, "Mine's been static this whole time."

Lillian scowls a little into her cup, not at Gustavain, but because all of these questions with no simple answers. (And boy, it's a good thing he does not bring up children, because that hadn't occurred to her and they don't need her stomping back out into the cold and snow to try and find and rescue the ones that had to exist.)

"It doesn't make any sense," she grumbles, but she'll still drink her tea. It wouldn't be any good to waste it. As for the link pearl, attached towards the back of her horn, she shakes her head. "No, nothing for a while now. Maybe the tower's screwing that up, too." Her attunement to aether is... not great, but everything just feels wrong with those towers.

"I hope it's the storm," it wasn't supposed to be a bad blizzard by Garlean standards, or a long one, but it's definitely picking up the wind and the snow outside enough that it's a bad idea to be out in it. "If that's true, we should be able to contact someone within a couple hours. If it's the tower..." he sighs, "I guess we pack up what provisions we can and follow the river after we get warm," his tone makes it clear he's not looking forward to it.

"They're going to scout, of course, but I'd rather haul the ceruleum with us and see if we can make it to another place to use it rather than sit here until it runs out, hoping they find us." He's not quite as much a person of action as she is, but he definitely will get antsy if they stay here longer than needed to rest up and get fully warmed and dry.

Oh, Lillian is definitely not the type to wait around for scouts to find her. Here's hoping for both of their sakes that it is the storm.

"I suppose we have to wait and see, then," she says, which she is not terribly happy about as is but they do likely need the rest. Not that's feeling particularly restful yet, still amped up from the fight and their earlier conversation. She'll try to drink her tea and settle in, but sitting still has never been a strong skill of hers and Gustavain can already see that.

He's already been shown that she's vastly different in temperament from Sigdurgu if nothing else, but he is sort of anticipating the two of them settling into a stoic sort of silence. So when she's clearly shifting a bit a moment later, unable to keep entirely still, the diplomat in him (that he always swears up and down he isn't) pulls words from him before he can help it,

"I learned how to knit my clothes back up the same as flesh, but I still have to do armor the hard way. Do you want any assistance with yours?"

(She would team up with Rielle against Sigdurgu in a heartbeat and he would not stand a chance against their combined might.)

"Oh, do you have tools with you?" She knows how to patch up her own armor as well, but left her tools and such back at the camp. More out of overconfidence than anything- had Gustavain not shown up, she may not have bothered to take shelter and would be trying to make her way back.

"Not proper ones and I'm not very good at it, to be honest," he admits with a laugh, "but I know enough to tighten straps and get pieces cleaned at least, so they won't have further damage," his eyes sparkle with good humor at his own failings, "To be fair, I don't know how to properly mend my clothing either, just make it look better. But considering the cold, it's better to not let the wind blow through it regardless of ah... structural integrity, shall we say? I can get a proper mender to look at it when we get out of this."

Lillian gives a helpless little shrug. "I should probably be better at mending armor than I am... I've just always like weaving better." The only activity from her upbringing that she enjoyed, really. Though in hindsight it may have had something to do with stabbing her frustrations away.

She'll hop up to her feet in one quick motion, moving to grab her armor and settle back on the floor next to Gustavain. "I appreciate the help!" Even minor repairs are helpful, given the situation. And the fact that the situation he came upon with her absolutely surrounded by enemies is not uncommon.

"At least I can cook," he quips as he starts to look over her armor, "So I suppose I'm good for something that's not related to killing people," it's said lightly, very definitely joking, but it's a kind of gallows humor that definitely sits better on a Dark Knight than a healer. It definitely sits a bit strange coming from the Warrior of Light. But he's not lingering on it, doesn't even seem to have assigned it much importance, moving to start working on cleaning the smaller pieces of her armor,

"A weaver, hm? Shall I pay you to patch my armor up while we wait, then, instead? I'm certain it could use it," there's the hint of an opening left deliberately there, nothing she can put her finger on precisely, more than just that it sounds like an invitation to banter, but the door is open nevertheless.

Lillian giggles. "Oh, you don't need to pay me to do it. So long as you ask very nicely."

Just like his words, there's clearly something else in there, a testing sort of banter. She's getting to like him already, quite different from what she'd thought the Warrior of Light would be like- and while she's sure she could have gotten along fine for a single night with what she'd imagined, this is more fun. Especially since she's wondering if he'll catch on to her tone, that a simple 'please' isn't what she's implying...

There's the barest hint of a sly look on his face, not like he's trying to be clever so much as like he's also caught scent of the game, here, and is slowly feeling out the edges of it with a banked delight.

"I've been told I'm very persuasive when I've a mind to be," he returns in the same tone, "How nicely would you need to be asked?"

He's saying that like he's still talking about asking, but if before the door was opened a crack, he's basically just kicked it open. There's still a hint of plausible deniability here, on both their sides, but he doesn't seem hesitant to name what they're talking about so much as enjoying the push-and-pull a bit longer.

Lillian grins, and it's a surprisingly wicked expression on her otherwise sweet and cute face. Still, her tone remains playful, and she taps a finger to the side of her lips, forcing her expression into something thoughtful.

"Hmmm... very, very nicely," she hums, and then adds on like she's trying to be helpful, "Begging works. Or some people grovel. I can be pretty flexible."

Now, now, he finally roves his eyes up and down her body in something more than mere assessment of injuries and a vague understanding that she's attractive. He takes his time with it, lets his expression slide heavy-lidded and warm while he does.

"You'd make even the Warrior of Light beg?" It's not a challenge. The tone is soft, still teasing a bit perhaps, but it's clear now where they're headed. He's been sitting on one of the dining room chairs this whole time, but it's a simple matter to slip out of it to his knees. With the way she's sitting on the floor and his own height, he's still looming over her a bit, but the position is nothing if not obvious.

"I would," she says, and while a bit of chipper cheekiness remains on the surface, there's something darker, almost familiar underneath. She doesn't move from her spot, but the height difference between them doesn't seem to matter that much, the way she sits up straight giving her something of an imposing air as she reaches up to his face. From the outside, the touch may look sweet, a soft caress, but behind the curve of his jaw Gustavain can feel the slight bite of nails sharpened to be more like claws, threatening to draw blood. "Especially since he wants to."

(There is it, why this might be familiar. She wants to see, you want to show her--)

She can see him relax into it, the way his expression slides even more heavy lidded. He tilts his head to the side to bare his neck just slightly as she reaches for it, then leans into the caress once it's there. Into the palm of her hand, yes, but also into those nails.

"Mm, I do," he confirms, because it's important, "I want to." And then, because it's also important, "If you want someone who'll fight you, say so now. I'd not wish to prove unsatisfactorily... accommodating, but I've little mind to resist otherwise." And then, there's still a little smirk, his humor as always rising to the forefront, a little show that she need not worry his easy acquiescence means losing his personality,

"Besides, what is the point in resistance when both of us can mend," he teases, but also allows, draws part of a line-- she is the clothing mender, of course, that's how this started, but he can knit flesh, bone. It's permission, if she wants it, deliberately open-ended.

She runs her thumb over his cheek, a sweeter gesture to offset the way her nails dig in a little deeper, raising red lines across his skin as they draw little circles. "Mm, no, you don't need to," she says, cocking her head slightly, "I don't mind it, but it's not what I'm looking for, either."

She shifts up, bringing her legs to either side of his, raised up so she's closer to his face (which has the side effect of showing off how very toned her lower half is). "That doesn't mean I'm not going to hurt you, though," she warns, her bubbly voice now rich and dark as she leans in, biting down on the curve of his neck.

He hasn't yet been forbidden touch, so he reaches up and slides his hands around the backs of her thighs when she raises up like that. His hands are a little heated, this is no platonic, helpful touch, but there's nothing groping about it, either, and he doesn't reach further for her either for his own gratification or to please her in a way she hasn't asked for. It's simply a bridge, a point of anchoring and connection.

He doesn't have anything smart to say to her telling him she's going to hurt him, but the way the side of his mouth curls up in a little smirk says everything he's not about how he feels about it. And then her teeth dig into his skin and he makes the sweetest little noise, soft and aching.

It's been a long time since he let himself indulge like this. He's going to enjoy every moment of it.

"Such a sweet boy," she all but coos, knuckles of her free hand brushing over his cheek. It's the kind of tone that could inspire many things, depending on the mood of the listener; some might be inclined to push back, fight her and test her, but if Gustavain's already not inclined to put up a fight, it might be more soothing, inviting him to sink further into this and let her do what she will. "I'll take very good care of you~"

She gives him a brief little kiss to his lips, similar to that head kiss she gave him earlier, before turning her faze down towards his remaining clothing. "Get the rest of this off," she tells him simply, "...Unless you really want to test my mending skills, I suppose."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only