#noxianwill

Katarina as a voice of reason never did fit, not since their first meeting or any of their encounters that followed. Something that was in their nature required them both to argue on every subject, clashing blades that never saw eye to eye, sparks flying with each strike, only halting when clothing was being ripped open. This suggestion? For once he was in agreement, what they did, what they always did once tensions got too high could never work. It was wrong, they were wrong, and yet her words barely reached his ears once his mouth was on her neck, mapping every inch of skin he could find, tasting her, marking her.

Garen makes a sound of agreement, muffled by his mouth being far too busy, trailing kisses along her collarbone, the room only illuminated by candlelight, some hovel they had bunkered down in should the weather turn distraught. A solace of privacy where the predictable would happen, not that they hadn't touched one another just sitting around a campfire, but the wall and roof were a nice change in scenery. Was it wrong that he liked that it was just them in this room? A fleeting moment of time inside a small bubble just their own.

He wanted to breathe her in, memorize every sound he could make a deadly assassin make, he reveled the feeling of her in his arms, the way she kissed him just as needily and sharply as their nonstop banter. She was a fire, she burned, and yet the comfort of her heat had him reveling just to get seared. He refused to voice these thoughts out loud, eloquence wasn't a luxury he had, and their . . . situation didn't call for it. Even when his heart beat a little faster every time she teased him or he found himself looking at her when she wasn't looking at him.

He refused to tell her about how she took up practically every thought he had whenever he wasn't on duty. It wasn't allowed, this was just physical, two adults with far too much tension releasing it in the best way they could. There was nothing else bubbling just beneath the surface, no metaphorical string tying them together and bringing them into one another's arms just because it felt right.

Pushing thoughts of his desire to confess anything dangerous regarding his hear aside, he pulls back to stare at her expression, his face flush and pupils wide with desire. " We should stop. " He repeats her earlier suggestion, voice firm, and yet not even a breath later he's moving southward, eyes never leaving her own as his trail of kisses reaches her stomach, his kisses are rough, the hint of stubble scratching along her bare skin and yet he feels his gaze soften, and terrified that she'd notice, he moves his attention back to her pants, fingers curling into the fabric, not tugging on them yet.

" May I? " The notion of stopping long gone, as he asks, voice husky. He could focus on the task at hand, focus on making her feel good, pretending that what they did was just for pleasure.

As in all things, Katarina leans to her father's side. Mother was, admittedly, disinclined to like anything that was a surprise or not her choice, and this was both. But if father chose to bring him the boy to their home — to have him fed and cleaned and clothed, to give him a place to stay, to state he would train this Talon himself — she figures it's not without reason. Father never does anything without reason. 

They had been introduced, of course, but it's the first chance Katarina gets to actually talk to the boy. And, despite her stance, curiosity drives her more than judgment, the latter a side effect of being born to nobility. ❝ Have you known him for long? I figure father didn't bring you here right after you two met. How did that happen, anyway? ❞ // from @noxianwill , you get a baby this time

He was told to make himself at home, but he's never been allowed to linger in such luxury before, doesn't know what to do with the plush rugs and velvety chairs, wouldn't know what to do with one pillow, let alone four. Despite being surrounded by comfort, the security in four walls and heavy doors, Talon has never felt more on edge.

Finally, he finds a windowsill he can perch in, back against the wall and his green eyes turned out towards the street, watching everyone who passes by like his life still depends on it. He had not thought of himself as someone who finds comfort in the familiar until that moment, doing something simply because it feels like something he did before everything changed.

Talon's attention turns to her before she speaks; a creak of the floorboards or a whisper of fabric alerting him to her presence before she announces it herself. Katarina. He remembers the name, a highborn name. There will be no 'Fang's or 'Blade's in his future, he thinks. They had met earlier, but they hadn't chatted. Talon feels a whisper of discomfort at her presence now, a sense that he ought to be somewhere else, like he's been discovered in a place he shouldn't be.

“Is it? ‘Cause from what I see, perspective doesn’t matter. They come into the arena, I give people a show, and the prosecuted submit to death via Draaaaven.”

His tone is sarcastic as he lounges in cold throne of the Noxkraya arena; one axe propped up next to the side of it and leaning against it, the other in his free hand; spinning idly in a slow rotation as his cheek rests in the palm of his hand, dark brows furrowed as the Executioner looks beyond the empty arena; blood dried in several places and the trails from his axes still looking fresh, despite the spectacle ending mere hours ago.

Lips pull into a fine line briefly before another huff leaves the beast of a man, Draven rising from his seat and stepping closer to the edge to admire the scenery of bloodshed before looking at Katarina over his shoulder; expression less then impressed by her presence or whatever advice she was trying to give him. One could suspect that Draven was in one of his moods—nothing unusual there. He was always confident in his little spectacle; thriving on the thrill land adrenaline that came from chanting of his name, but something was…off.

“Do you usually try to give unwanted advice, Kat? Didn’t take you for the type.” He sneers, shrugging broad shoulders before pointing the axe he still held in his one hand towards the pit. “What I think, regardless of perspective”, a quick glance to her. “Is that we get one of those Demacian Crownguard brats in there and see how well they do against me. Now THAT’S a show!”

A scowl graces his features. Bah. He moves back to said throne and falls into it; leaning the axe he held next to the other before crossing his arms over his chest. A rut—he was in a rut.

it is a request that should not fluster her as much as it does, but alas.

Qiyana had never learned to braid her own hair. even when the humidity of Ixtal made it stick to every inch of skin and the wind in a fight whipped strands around her eyes, she found pride in making it through the inconvenience.

until, recently, the princess noticed her hair got longer in the months spent in Noxus — long enough to get caught in the hinge of a door.

Katarina's immediate acceptance relieves the visible tension in Qiyana's shoulders at the very least. the royal takes a step forward, then closes the gap between them.

" it has become inconvenient, but I do not wish to cut it yet. so, if you wouldn't mind... "

she trails off, still unused and visibly awkward upon asking for another to lay hands on her, even for something quite as simple as a hairdo.

there is also, of course, the inevitable baring of her nape. something that no honorable Ixtal would show outside of marriage or family.

it is with wariness that Qiyana approaches the pile of books set upon her desk. she does not recognize them — then realizes she is not meant to. holding the note between delicate fingertips, Qiyana finds her lips curling into a small smile.

when she came to Noxus, friendship was the last thing she expected to find. it had been hard not to be snappy at Katarina the first time the other had teased her taste — had it come from anyone else, the princess would have interpreted it as an insult. was that what having someone to trust felt like? it was alright to poke harmless fun at them? how odd.

nevertheless, she is glad that she has been catching up on her lessons in the Demacian language. it is just as austere as Va-Nox, with a touch of cursive. those books will be good practice.

They were so hungry...

The emptiness had long since given up complaining audibly, but the lack of energy was making every movement that much more work. The chill in the air wasn't nearly as harsh as the bitter cold that had soaked through ragged shoes and old socks, making the young urchin continuously curl their toes, and stomp on the spot. Talon had seen what happens if feet got too cold. The back of the inn amongst the crates and garbage left to freeze wasn't the ideal place to find either necessity - food scraps were thrown to the dogs in their pens when they weren't inside - but they continued to stand at their post, huddled and blending in between sacks and empty barrels. The risks were high; if they were caught they might lose a finger or more. But they would probably lose digits either way if they didn't try. A rumbling gait approached the closed door until it burst open, a kitchen hand instantly complaining about the cold while she tossed another burlap bag of garbage on the pile, none the wiser to Talon's existence. Their raggedy hood lifts up to watch as the door was left to creak shut by itself, and they slide the broken chunk of wood they had been drumming on into the ajar opening. Just as it was about to click shut, the lumber clatters between the frame and cobbled step. Dull eyes widen and they spring into action.

A blast of warmth hits their masked face, and Talon nearly pauses in the entryway. But they know better than to bask, finishing their scuttle behind the kitchen hand until they were under a kitchen counter, gripping the ragged ends of their paper-thin cloak so they weren't spotted. The smells of bubbling stews, fish brine, and slow-cooked meats were nearly as overwhelming as the comforting warmth. But this was no place for them. Talon had to analyse the area, grab whatever they could, and get out just as fast. The island counter they found themself under in the cramped kitchen had a good view of the other tall countertops that hugged the walls around the furnaces and spit roasts, decorated with knives and other large utensils. They could clearly see the side they were opposite, but the sacks of food made it difficult to see the rest of the surroundings. Talon listens for different gaits of the workers. There were at least three. They start as one of the chefs makes their way around the counter, only to walk past and place down the tray in hand, revealing a roasted fowl that stole their attention immediately, their dirty little mask getting damp from saliva. As it was being carved, Talon quickly turned and began to push one of the heavy burlap sacks they were surrounded by, putting all the strength their weak little body had left into moving it. When it finally tumbles, dirt and tubas cascade over the floor, announced by curses and plates clattering as the other workers fought to keep their balance as the kitchen was paused. Keeping to the shadow of the counter, Talon turns to see the carving chef join the others, leaving the roast unsupervised.

Now!

the invitation given (and the little ginger cat she brought along satisfied with the pets he got), Qiyana was quick to turn around with the same air of disinterest she carried on the way to Katarina.

however, somewhere deep within the class president, she was a little giddy about having managed to invite someone (if only so the manager would stop calling her an intimidating loner).

when the day came (and a crowd was gathered outside, attempting to buy any tickets from people who were invited), Qiyana found herself quite busy. the place was aflame with life, multiple groups of people gorging themselves on the new desserts in the café's various booths and the cats delighting themselves with the attention they were given.

and yet, as she carried plates back into the kitchen and served more sweet treats with practiced grace and a fake smile that had many fawning after her trailing skirt, her eyes were on the establishment's doors. waiting. expecting. she didn't quite know why, but she really wanted Katarina to come.

perhaps she was expecting it to check some unseen bucket list where she had written down she wanted to have a friend visit her at her job.

were they even friends? no. maybe? Qiyana couldn't pinpoint it. there was at least mutual secrecy going on.

❝ kat, ya realize nobody mentionned daddy issues until ya did? ❞

which was what happened most other times, every time. one did not go without the other.