svndri

Dorian, predictably, stopped emoting. The only thing that his eyes managed was a faint crease, a betrayal of humor and fondness - that tone made him think of a certain summer, in Bijou - while the rest of his face completely shut down. Ingrained reflex. Slow, wary like a panther being guided to soft blankets, he did stand. He did let her keep his hand. He did let her take the lead, which was more than rare. Silent, because he got so abruptly silent whenever emotion stirred somewhere in whatever scraps of heart he had left, he walked quietly in her wake. Watched her gather supplies, handle people, avoid rumours by hiding their entangled fingers. Tailing her down from castle, responsibilities, blood and more blood; into something earthen, warm, damp and quiet. Dorian stood there for a moment, still and - well. He was thirty years of age. The warlord of Thyrea. Etcetera, etcetera. He was an expert at looking like he was carefully weighing his options, when he might in fact have been promptly out of his element. Solitude? Relax? How the fuck did you do that? He licked his teeth, gave her hand a grateful squeeze, and carefully withdrew his own. Shoulders unreasonably tense. "...right," he said. "Hm." ... Use your words, commander. But nothing was forthcoming. He looked like a man trapped, not a man offered a warm bath and some privacy.

"You're not obliged to, you know," she offered, her voice gently reverberating off the cavern walls. "I just thought it would do you some good." Her smile suddenly widened unintentionally, her eyes crinkling with amusement as she playfully teased, "Or are you unfamiliar with the concept?" In the Carthaki court, there were some nobles who had never cared for themselves, leaving such tasks to their servants. Amani had a hard time believing Dorian was one of them.

A soft chuckle escaped her as she patted the soft towels she was still holding. She pondered whether to let the Thyrean escape and take advantage of the springs herself or to make one more attempt to help him unwind. Amani opted for the latter. "I could assist you, but that would mean you'd have to disrobe in front of me, unless you're too much of a prude."

To drive his point home, Garrett leaned in and kissed her back. It started just as softly as her own sweet kiss had been, but the longer his lips were on hers the more he poured in every wicked thought he'd had. Thoughts, admittedly, he'd been having for years. Wrapping his arms around her with one gently pressing up her spine, Garrett drank in just how perfectly she fit in his arms. With ragged breaths, his lips left hers, a boyish smile on his face. Somehow he was pressing her against those large windows and with he had no desire to move away, Garret held her there, drawing small circles into her hips. "I'm gonna wear you down, Milana, and you'll love it here. I won't be gone much and you'll love it too much to notice when I am. You going to let me try and convince you or did I scare you off?"

By the time they finally parted, Milana's cheeks had turned a rosy shade, and she found herself barely catching her breath. It was like a surge of electric energy was pulsing through her body, leaving her feeling light-headed and full of excitement as any lingering doubts about her decision to come to Montana were completely dispelled. "You've been wearing me down since you penned your first letter to me, Mr. Turner. How could I possibly say no to you now?"

And there was something in his voice that plain didn't believe her, perhaps wary, and not a small smidgen concerned. "You have my favour already." In other words: She was correct, but he didn't want to occupy the same, placated seat her late husband had. He didn't want her to do this on his behalf - and he needed her to assure him that this was truly what she wanted. He was keenly aware of their power imbalance, and while he leaned on it in order to see his will fulfilled - mercilessly - he took great care in not employing it elsewhere. Only for the cause. Never for himself. Never to make a clever woman tend to his scrapes and bruises if she didn't want to, but felt she must. And it was true, what she guessed at. Dorian was not uncomfortable with touch, per say, but it was true that he was particular. He rarely employed staff that didn't wield a blade, and only ever got help from a squire in polishing Vardar and removing the more clumsy parts of his armour. He could count on one hand the people who had held his hands like Amani did. And of course, she was beautiful. Was there any denying this? No. The bruise only marred it in the sense that it highlighted she had been in pain, but Amani of Bijou were one of those rare jewels in the realm that everyone spoke of - both to her face and behind her back. There was a reason Carthak had been so pleased to claim her as their own. That she was beautiful was, because Dorian was a compulsive strategist, a downside. It made her words more compelling, her actions tinged with golden grace. It set him on edge, the same way a skilled general could; he needed to watch his step. Courts weren't entirely outside his scope of management - he was monosyllabic, but not necessarily unskilled with words and the politics of peace times. But there was no denying he'd spent most of his time encamped somewhere, trekking through mud, and hurling orders. Softer approaches - just like Rostaban's, honstly - tended to be harder to harden yourself against.

"Yes, and?"

Her face lit up with a soft, endeared smile as she gently placed her hands on his knees, using them as support to help herself stand up. "You're filthy," she informed him, "While there's plenty of clean cloth available, I won't have you dirtying them up and causing more work for the servants. Come."

Amani extended a hand to help him rise, but did not release him from her grip as she moved to guide him further into the labyrinthine halls of Carthak's keep. Pausing briefly, she gathered a bundle of towels for him and deliberately chose the lesser traversed pathways. Along the way, they encountered a group of frightened servants. She hid their joined hands behind her back as she took a moment to reassure them before granting permission to withdraw. Amani assured them that Rostaban and the other soldiers would handle most of the aftermath before requiring their assistance.

The air became increasingly warm and humid as she guided Dorian down a staircase that transitioned from polished marble to intricately carved stone steps. Their descent led them into a vast cavern, where they were greeted by the sight of natural hot spring pools, their steam creating an otherworldly ambiance within the cavernous space.

"Finding solitude is quite challenging in the castle. I can only imagine that it was impossible in the encampments you've been in. Please take all the time you need. I will be here to ensure that no one disturbs you."

His coils more prominent a pattern, longer, than they had been when they last met. Edges a little less defined than he prefered, beard nearly unkempt. More than one scratch and bruise, certainly, especially on his arms, where the shield and armour had taken the brunt of a blow but still, a blow had connected. Dorian didn't cease studying her, nor did he offer any counter-argument. But certainly, there was a smile teasing at the corners of his full mouth. Amusing, how she moved like water. This was the same as during that negotiation in the wagon - but perhaps, even more skilled. She'd had time to mull over her argument. "I will stay, Amani." He said, before she started counting off all the further ways in which she had been right and he had been wrong. Reached out to gently take hold of her wrist, lock eyes with her. "And you need not appease me-" Caress, wash, tend to. "-for me to do so. I have seen reason." ... "Eventually."

Amani halted her self-imposed task when his gentle yet firm grasp appeared on her wrist. Startled, she looked up at him with a puzzled expression, silently questioning whether she had been handling him too roughly. "I am not doing this to appease you, Your Majesty. I'm doing this because I want to," she informed him honestly. There was no denying that her words before that point had been to handle him, but her actions from the beginning stemmed from a deep-rooted desire to care for the warrior. "Am I wrong to say that it is unlikely that you would permit anyone, especially the household servants, to provide you with assistance? And if there were anyone you would permit to make physical contact with you, I would be one of the few?"

"someone so vague doesn't get the privilege of asking questions, danny." he scanned the roads as he drove. keeping an eye out for traffic, yes. but there was a second element to it. he didn't like the idea of being followed. not that anyone would--but it was foolish to be so haphazard with something as private as family matters. "i'll disclose our destination once you give me an acceptable explanation for your actions."

out of the corner of his eye, he noticed him biting his fingers. elias detested that habit. so unhygienic. "i can't imagine you would thrive at a university if you remain so fragile. what would you do if you didn't have your mother to coddle you? or have me to drop everything and bail you out?"

A violent sense of intimacy rushed in from all sides, suddenly. The commander was all too accustomed to tending to wounded soldiers, and he realised in that moment that perhaps that was what he'd seen her as. His Hand, bruised, that needed some restored morale. Some private attention, so as to not fold under the next onslaught of pressure he needed her to stand firm against. But Amani changed the rules - again. Setting his jaw, Dorian reluctantly did as he was bid; and of course, the second he sank into that cushioned seat, weariness made his body heavy like lead. He struggled against the immediate taming such a simple gesture produced, and didn't close his eyes to her careful ministrations. Tried to keep them open, study her. In the light from the window, and under his undivided attention, she suddenly appeared in more detail. Soft coils and dark, expressive eyes that nonetheless always appeared like perfectly composed pools of still water. Even when she was frantically pacing the throne room, after her husband passed, she'd faced away from him as she did; refusing to let those eyes show too much. He wondered how much coiled in their depths. "This is a very clever way of rephrasing your previous request," was, however, what he said. Because again, while it worked, Dorian knew when he was being handled. She said: Let me take care of you. But underlying it was also: Do your goddamn job, Warlord of Thyrea, and manage your territories.

As she paused to fold the cloth to a clean section, her mind raced with thoughts of how to alleviate Dorian's fatigue and discomfort. Perhaps a long soak in a warm bath followed by a thorough scrub would do wonders for him. Still, with no available servants to assist, Amani realized the task would be hers alone and perhaps inappropriate for their relationship. So, instead, she considered taking him to the natural hot springs concealed beneath the castle, where he could at least soak in the warm waters that kept them warm in the winter, but she hesitated to take him there until he made their murky future clearer.

"I don't know what you mean," she replied, not out of coyness but in an almost unassuming underestimating of her abilities. Amani exchanged the soiled cloth for a fresh one, crouched down next to Dorian to take his calloused hands, and began scrubbing them clean. She was skilled at exerting influence discreetly, using her ability to shape ideas in a way that made them appear to originate from others-her husband specifically when he was still alive. Her strength lay in working covertly, orchestrating things from behind the scenes. It never crossed her thoughts that Dorian might have already deduced this about her.

"You have expanded your influence over vast territories, yet you have not fully taken advantage of the wealth and resources you have acquired. This oversight could be due to a lack of awareness or understanding, but in this time of pause, wouldn't it be wise to reassess, reorient, and recoup as your father did when he came to Bijou?"

"i don't know how you've bewitched me, but it needs to stop." a hushed whisper is said hidden in the shadows, away from the dancing and joyous crowd and suddenly the corset of her dress feels extremely too tight on her. it wouldn't be proper for victoria to continue being seen with him, especially unsupervised, if she wished to secure her own match. a match she would have been so very eager to secure with him if he hadn't made it clear he had no intentions of seriously courting her. "if anyone continues seeing us together, I'll have absolutely no hope of securing a match this season. this needs to stop."

@lcstinthewoods

hundreds of years spent within that infernal prison, yet the man ( the GOD ) had been incapable of breaking free from the magic that had soaked through the stones and deep into the earth that made up the island on which it sat. there was a war on the horizon ⸻ and they had released him only after he'd agreed to a soul binding bargain. help them win ( prove himself reformed ) and he could have his freedom. there had been no hesitancy in his acceptance ⸻ not when a chance like this might not appear for another millennia ( and once he was free there was nothing to stop him from hunting down and razing those who had betrayed him in years past to the ground ).

wandering about the court that was currently meant to be his host until the time he was properly called upon, silas had spotted an all too familiar face ( and couldn't stop as feet trailed to approach them ). had he been deceived so long ago, or had fate plucked his little lover ( his mate ) and placed them before him once more? "and who might you be, pet?"

Tauriel paused from her task and glanced up, only to be greeted by the unexpected sight of a stranger standing before her. At first glance, the man didn't feel entirely unknown to her, but upon closer inspection, she realized she had never laid eyes on him before. A single teardrop suddenly welled up and traced a glistening path down her cheek. "Oh!" she gasped in surprise. The strange and unsettling feeling of familiarity washed over her, sending a shiver down her spine and leaving her with a deep sense of inexplicable sorrow. Hastily, she brushed the tear away, her bright eyes reflecting a mix of confusion and curiosity. "Please forgive me, sir. I don't know what's gotten into me. I'm one of the Priestesses of the Mother assigned here. I'm afraid that you've missed service, and the High Priestess has retired for the evening, but depending on your requirement, I can offer you my services if you cannot wait for the morn."

@surv1vor

Georgie didn't know why she agreed to come out that night. It wasn't something that she usually did but her friend had said it would be a good night-- and that they had someone for her to meet. A widow looking to date again and Georgie had argued but somehow was still ended up out with the group, though she'd been pushed in front of this man and her friend had disappeared. "I'm so sorry. I know she can be a lot." Smiling softly she tilted her head. "Or not enough because I'm getting the feeling you weren't told that she was playing matchmaker. Sorry, again."

A bittersweet mixture of sorrow and admiration filled his heart as he gazed at her. "God, you're still as beautiful as the day I lost you," he murmured softly under his breath, the words escaping like a whisper on the wind, before he cleared his throat and smiled. "It's alright. It's a nice change from all the apps." Thom chuckled, "I'm sorry, but what did you go by again? Georgie? That's a new one to me. When did you start going by that?"

@intoxfolklorex

Did this do anything to lessen the effectiveness of said handling? No. The commander was brought to an abrupt heel by the calmest, sweetest suggestion - such a blatant request (demand, he suspected) for care. To put his actual time to her injury, if he truly did care so much, or was he only doing it for show? Because it could be handled quickly, by someone else's hand? Either way, the healer took the opportunity to depart, while the aristocrats were locked in mental combat. Or rather, while Dorian ran down his own internal check-list. He should check with the stewards. He should get Varda cleaned. He should count his losses. He should, he should, he should. He should take care of Amani, who had some unspoken feeling still nesting in the depths of her eyes, and who had bore his poor temper and brute seizing of not just her home, but her husband's life (however unintentional), and her entire future. The warlord's hesitation didn't linger for long. But his shoulders dropped, showing hints of exhaustion, and he wordlessly nodded. What she was actually asking was for him to stop barking at those under his heel, and start taking some responsibility - which was not, even at a cursory glance, entirely unfair. Dorian offered his arm, and closed his hand over her fingers again, once he had it. He didn't know the layout of the keep, because he had never taken the time to learn it. Conquest was the name of his game, not maintenance. But Amani seemed to know, and soon enough the walls sprayed with blood and innards gave way for an inner, locked chamber that the fighting had not touched. Any servants were woefully absent, of course - perhaps still crowded in a basement somewhere, hoping to keep their lives - but Dorian had lived long enough in encampments to know how to manage himself. He began undoing the straps of his armour even before they were beyond prying eyes, and once they were, he stripped down to his mostly frayed, fading blue tunic. Wiped his face, roughly, with the back of a sleeve - then moved to fill up a copper basin with water, find himself some cloth. Quiet, as was his way, he settled by her side and carefully began to wipe at what was so clearly a strike across her face. You could see the marks, the scratches of what must have been a gauntlet. It was enough to make the pit of his stomach contract, even while his features remained settled. Only a dull tiredness burning at the corners of reddened retinas. "...I am sorry," he finally said, gravel over stone, a rumble from the depths of him.

As she intertwined her arm with Dorian's, she immediately sensed his uncertainty about their destination. With the soldiers closely watching them, she gently nudged and steered him in the right direction, subtly signaling the way they should go. To onlookers, it appeared he was leading confidently to a guest room, where she finally stepped away from him so he could strip off his armor without obstruction.

Amani settled into a cushioned seat next to the window, her eyes fixed on him as he moved about the room. Her eyelids gently fell shut as Dorian approached with a soft cloth and delicately tried pressing it against her face. A subtle blend of amusement and discomfort flickered across her features as he inadvertently applied a bit too much pressure to the tender, swollen area. Still, she could see the genuine effort he was making to help.

"I know," she replied gently as she slowly opened her eyes to look at him. "If you truly regret your actions, you can make amends by allowing yourself and your men to rest during the winter season."

Amani reached up and took the cloth from his hand; there was nothing he could do to heal the cuts and bruises on her face - only time could. She stood up, urged him to take her place and sit down, and began wiping the grime from his face. "Maintaining this pace will have repercussions," she cautioned, alluding to the recent rebellion he had suppressed. "Do you remember Carthak's offer to provide provisions for your campaign for four seasons? Let us reinvigorate your ranks while you recuperate. Let me take care of you."

Dorian said, matter of fact. It had not been worth it - not in the slightest. His army had been nearly halved, and then he'd had to turn the entire, blood weary force he had left back around again. Although Carthak had been more an uprising, and had been made quick work of, it had inevitably cost him even more - more than he knew, yet, as the toll had not been counted. "Arahat's new, young general was moving in on my south flank - lady Hati." This was astounding on its own, a woman in charge, but perhaps less so in Arahat than it would've been in Bijou and Thyrea. However, her reputation had been intimidating to say the least - it had seemed like she was making a similar move as he was doing, but on her own territories. "She was uniting the East under her banner. I wanted to break it before she succeeded. I did - but now we will have to recuperate. Carthak will have to recuperate. Winter is coming, and everyone is bleeding. I should have waited until spring." He reported this with the curt manners of someone extremely used to laying out his faults in detail; it had been the way of his father, and it was his own way when confronting his own men. And if it was one area where his words never failed him, it was when discussing strategy. The healer, looking quite worse for wear, finally reached them. They looked harrowed, and tired, and when Dorian gestured with his chin alone towards the Hand's bruises, they bristled. "No," they said, flatly. "She'll live. Some downstairs won't. If you'll fucking excuse me, my lord." The healer added an apologetic nod in Amani's direction, but firmly turned to walk down the same steps they'd come up from. Dorian's gaze darkened and he took a step forward as if to assert his power, gain one smidgen of control when everything seemed to be escaping his grasp.

Amani inclined her head in understanding at the healer's curt response, making sure to offer a soft smile that conveyed her lack of offense. Eager to show she bore no grudge at being denied assistance, Amani swiftly moved in front of Dorian to block his attempt to follow the healer.

"You do it," she suggested to him calmly. "If you have no urgent matters to attend to, please tend to me."

He was still trembling faintly with adrenaline, but as he began to come down from the high - the faint chime of steel against steel and the guttural outcries from men dying on blades had begun to settle in the castle, subconciously telling Dorian his already assured victory was now a fact - he felt exhaustion wash over him like a cold draft. He patted her hand a few times, and shook his head; nearly about to leave it, and her apology, at that when he remembered he'd gotten scolded for not using his words all but two seconds ago. "You asked me to stay. I did not," he summarised the situation - and in doing so, realised, perhaps, where his anger should rest. Not to mention that there was something about Amani's deferring care and immediate apology that plain stung. You couldn't snap at someone who moved like you were a mountain about to collapse onto her, nor someone whose cheek was already bruised by another. As they left the crowded hallway - which was, to be clear, littered with bodies - and come upon a broad, stone stairway that opened up in a balcony overlooking some of his soldiers, he barked out: "Healer." One of the dirty, but presumably once white, robes on the lower level rose (annoyed) from their work and began to climb up the staircase to heed the order.

As they arrived at the balcony, she was unaware of her sullen mood as she stood beside him. The warmth of the sun and the gentle breeze on her skin brought a fleeting sense of freedom after enduring weeks trapped within the castle's confines. However, her brief moment of solace was disrupted when her gaze shifted to the soldiers working below.

She firmly held the belief that it was unnecessary to call a healer away from those who needed it more than her. However, Dorian was persistent and wouldn't take no for an answer. If only he had listened, she wouldn't be in need of one now. In fact, no one would have required a healer's aid in the first place. Yet, perhaps she was being too naive, becoming too upset to care. "Was it worth it? Engaging with Arahat instead of stabilizing and safeguarding the territory you just acquired?" She asked with a gentle, almost whispered tone, "What made you decide Arahat was more important?" More important than the people he left behind? More important than her?

Max Tudor - 31, bisexual, enforcer

Open to mutuals and non-mutuals

Connection Ideas - Ex; friend/FWB; affair; escort; hookup; fellow criminal; rival gang member; cop/lawyer

++

The distinctive sound of Max’s Chelsea boots against the hardwood floor signalled his presence before knocking on the apartment door. The late hour didn’t matter to him. As a veteran criminal, he split his time between orchestrating robberies and enforcing the will of his bosses. Therefore, he rarely kept office hours. It wasn’t the first time he’d visited them at such an ungodly time, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last either. 

After three sharp knocks, Max waited. If they looked through the peephole, they’d see him standing firmly in his three-piece suit and overcoat, eyes fixated on the door. Max never texted or called before coming over. They had an understanding he could arrive whenever he needed to unwind. Tonight, such a principle stood stronger than ever, considering the bruising on his knuckles, the scratch on his cheek and the specks of blood on his tie. 

Michael had ended his relationship with Max amicably a long time ago. Still, the unexpected late-night visits were beginning to make him question if he had ended things too amicably. He sighed loudly at the sight of his ex as he wondered whether this would be the night he completely cut ties with the other man. However, instead of expressing his thoughts, Michael stepped aside and wordlessly invited him inside. After closing the door, he took a few steps into his kitchen, where he retrieved a small first aid kit from underneath the sink and an ice pack from the freezer and tossed each one at Max.

Moving back to where his work papers had fallen, he scoped them up and the remaining pile from the bed to make room for Max, knowing the other would join him when he was ready, and placed them messily on the coffee table. He sat on the edge of his bed, looking visibly exhausted and just a bit exasperated, as he tugged his shirt back off. "Do you realize that you come to visit me more than you ever did when we were together?"

Thumbing out the lit cigarette, he coldly returns the half - burned, tobacco - stuffed paper into its silver case. He is feeling particularly charitable today, obedient, perhaps even kind, but not enough so to not call his spouse by his given name. To the capofamiglia, it rolls off the tongue better, sounds sweeter, and reminds him of home. Disappointment often blooms in his chest when he is reminded, often by his husband, that not everyone could be so blithe about their non-anglican names

Raphael stares past Michael, at the crowning that adorns the perimeter of the playroom's walls. "This is MY home, Michele." He asserts, a bitter stubbornness nipping at the heels of his husband's name. Dark hues only offer the other a quick glance, not giving him the dignity of his full attention. Not until, that is, Michael's proposition resonates in the forefront of his mind. Bending slightly at the waist, he searches for his deceit and decides, most erroneously, that his husband is being nothing less than earnest.

But now, the agent was portraying the next phase of his undercover role as the neglected husband, whose job and child-rearing duties were no longer enough to distract his attention from his spouse's extramarital affairs. After years of forced celibacy to maintain Raphael's public appearance, Michael pretended to develop jealousy towards the other man's lovers because he, too, longed for companionship and the emotions that come with it, and he was so dedicated to his role that if Raphael looked into his finances, he would see that he was serious about divorce by having saved enough to rent a small apartment.

It was tempestuous, but chairs had a tendency to break before people did, and only in utter privacy. The good captain had been entrusted with Amani for a reason. He trusted the chatty annoyance, and especially with having a gentler hand - it was one of the many reasons he'd missed him during this recent crusade, because few people dared point out 'use your fucking words' when Dorian actually had to. Did this mean he didn't lick his own teeth like a mad dog considering if it should bite? No, of course not. But ultimately, he looked to Amani, and then abruptly sheathed his blade. Wiped at his face with the back of his sleeve. "I am not hurt," he said, voice like gravel. "You are." Dorian didn't exactly sound any less pissed - because he wasn't - but he made a decent attempt at reeling it in. Gestured with his chin. "Come," his voice lost some of its heat. He opened up his stance by raising an arm, gesturing for her to come closer. "The castle is ours again. Let's get you a healer."

Amani's eyes darted back and forth between the two men, her brows furrowed with worry as Rostaban's teasing words seemed capable of goading him into drawing Vardar again. However, to her immense relief, Dorian motioned for Amani to come closer instead. With a hesitant tone, she pointed towards the open doorway of the tower and softly conveyed, "There are others who require assistance more urgently than I do."

Rostaban stepped forward, already aware of his next task. "I'll take care of it," he assured, nodding toward their brooding leader. "Go to him. He needs this," he encouraged softly, his voice filled with a deep understanding and empathy towards their ruler.

Amani, her brow furrowed slightly in confusion, nodded as she stepped forward to his side. With great care, she gently placed her hand in the crook of his elbow, not entirely convinced he was unhurt and showing no concern for the dirt and grime that covered his clothing. "...I'm sorry."