DEVYA

It’s a simple gesture, that he’s only seen children do, linking their fingers together to seal this promise. The ridiculousness made him chuckle, but Haper didn’t move to take his hand away, somewhat taken with the gentle attention she put into her touch. Her lips brushed against his knuckles with care, like he was something fragile.

The scrape of the woman’s teeth against the rough of his skin draws a soft shudder from him that Harper hopes goes unnoticed, even if the flush on his cheeks doesn’t. Freckles stand out on his tan skin, Harper averts his gaze thinking about the implications of her words.

“Oh really, a bribe she says.” He clicks his tongue, head shaking. “What happened to honor and following the rules?” Harper feigns dramatics, hand touching at his chest. “And what sort of bribe would I be offering?”

Being closer to him allowed her to take note of those freckles, and for a second, it stalled her. A longer moment taken to allow eyes to settle on face, to observe them, getting a little lost in how nice it might be to entertain the notion of counting them, kissing them. It’s even better when their touched with a blush she’s now certain is her favorite shade. There’s a slight grin tugging, flirting at the corner of her mouth, but she says nothing. The expression does all the speaking she needs. 

“When did I ever say I followed the rules?”  Questioned back, a raise of both brows accompanying it like a second thought for a moment before laughter found her easily. This wasn’t near what she expected when she’d stepped out in the middle of the night, but it was a pleasant surprise. Shoulders eventually shrugged, hardly willing to give him instructions - not when it came to this, at least. He was going to have to prove just how clever, just how creative he could be .That, or he was going to have to find his voice, and that, that was something she wanted to hear. 

It’s surprising how sure she speaks, like there are no shades of grey between full values in either direction, her answers determined.  It’s not how Harper lives. But it makes him cock a brow at her, “Is that a promise?” He asked, amusement seeping through the dryness of his tone.  “It might come to bite you.”

He did avert his gaze this time, feeling flighty under her gaze, like she saw too much of what he wasn’t ready to really talk about or see reflected in others. Her answer makes him look up, chuckling. A gloomy outlook, but he’s always had it. Realistic, Harper liked to think, he saw things without the veil of too many emotions. But he’s hopeful.

He kept the quiet for the next few turns on the sidewalk, thinking on what he wanted to know. “You do owe me the story about how you got that scar.”

“Come here.”  It’s a request at first, but it’s not as open for discussion as she might have first made it seem. She’s already moving to take his hand, looping their pinkies together in a very childish gesture. Devya is no stranger to absurdities, or child like behaviors - her siblings clung to many of them. This is just one she happens to like, a grin wearing on features already, as hands were lifted so that lips could brush across his knuckles first, as if he were delicate, something to be absolutely treasured, and then over their linked digits.

“Best promise you’ll ever get, or so I’m told. In the mean time. I think I’ll be the one doing the biting.”  Nipping at those same fingers for a moment before a laugh, honest, genuine in its intention graced the silence between them. Finally, she let him go with a shake of her head. The Horseman knew there was really no reason, no need for such nonsense, but it was fun, and sometimes that was reason enough. He, of all people, looked like he needed a reason to smile and she was more than willing to be that. 

“Maybe, but it’s gotten you to think of a next time, so it can’t be that bad.” Harper banters back easily to answer the sly smile on her face. He’s stubborn usually, yes, but the spark to be difficult now is different. He can’t quite put his finger on what it is yet, but it’s not because he wants to deter her from staying. And that desire along is confusing.

The man opened his mouth, searching for an answer on his tongue that he couldn’t offer. Admitting he was frustrated would be admitting that he wasn’t used to being looked at the way she had. That maybe…there was still some part in him that cared. Which was stupid and Harper preferred not to dwell on his own stupidity, so he simply shrugged. Shoulders lifting in a soft pull. “One of these days the sky’s going to come crashing down.” The God observed with a somber humor. “If I were you I would start collecting those dollars.”

“You would be right.” Harper canted his head to one side, repeating the name, lips forming the syllables soundlessly. He kept his seat even as she stood, studying the length of her frame, the long lines of her body, before he pushed himself on his feet to follow her. “I’m Harper. Harper Aidan.” His eyes traced forth to the path she’d pointed, and even though he wanted to ask questions, be the cautious creature he was, Harper’s tongue remained still. “Alright, Devya.” He smiled with her name. “Lead the way.”

“Oh, the only way there isn’t going to be a next time is if you decide that.” She pointed out what Devya assumes to be the truth, the real truth is that the submissive is always the one that calls the shots when it comes to that. It’s a little known secret, polluted by a world of shitty dominants, bred by fifty shades of abusive behavior. But that is neither here, nor there. The important part is that she would very much allow him to repeat the process, to stay. 

She stops for a moment and turns to him when the realization that he isn’t, in fact, used to being wanted. Still, she doesn’t look at him like he’s something to be pitied, like he’s pathetic. Instead, there is that knowing sort of understand floating across her features, observant with just the edge of a smile. “You just let me worry about the sky falling.”  There’s a little bit of reassurance there, perhaps a small touch of protectiveness flirting with tone. 

“Now,” Harper crosses his hands over his chest, “Where’s the fun in answering that question right away?” Even though his words more or less confirm her statement on their own, he’s too stubborn to give it outright.

“I’m starting to think you just enjoy frustrating people.” It’s hard not to smile back, the traitorous twitch of his lips betraying him, Harper pushed a hand through his hair, trying to steady the mess of curls before giving up. “My thoughts?” He echoed back with an unreadable expression, the corners of his mouth picking up. Any other day he would have said no, but it’s not any other day. He’s here. And that makes all the difference in the world. These singular moments in time don’t beckon repetition. “Well, it’s the end of times, isn’t it?” The God joked looking at her. “I would say I’d like to have a name first.”

“Try answering next time and maybe I’ll show you.”  A quick answer given, clever smile winding its way onto her features. This was enjoyable, the lull of the back and forth, the way that he seemed to react - even when he didn’t want to. It was all a game she’d started, and honestly, still intended to win. It had started to change from winning for the victory, though. Now, it was headed far closer to winning for the sake of the prize, for what could be him on his knees. 

“Now why would I be frustrating you?”  Another question, this time in a sing song sweet tone as if she couldn’t begin to imagine why this behavior would have begun to chip away at anyone...most of all him, but she knew. Of course she knew, and every move was made with a practiced purpose. “The end of times.”  She scoffed, chuckling a little bit. “If I had a dollar for every time I’d heard that very expression.”  

There is a knee planted on either side of her, a comfortable weight by just the mere suggestion of his body as he lingered above her. Hands were greedy, taking in flesh from the starting line, allowing the ghost of fingertips to insert a more dominant fire beneath the skin - as if she were trying to make sure that he would remember every inch that had been given such precious attention. There was a drag of fingernails, the threat of pressure applied to the right places, promising to leave the imprint of half moon’s behind, perhaps even hinting at the intent to draw blood. 

He had always been beautiful, and she’d taken to telling him every opportunity to tell him just that, but now the air seemed to shift a little bit. She readjusted purposely, allowing for the suggestion of cock to brush against him. It was a tease, and she was well aware of that fact, the point - as a matter of fact. A quiet hum came after, like she was weighing her own options for a moment, before firmer grasp was applied to the underside of thigh, forcing him to readjust as well, forcing him to lower just enough that once again she could be felt, harder against him when hips rolled up, a confident stroke that still refused to give him any real relief - refused to fill him like she could tell he wanted her to. 

Leaning in now, she closed enough distance so that mouth could find the right place on skin, right in the crook of his neck. She claimed it easily, just as she was going to claim him. Teeth dragged, touching shoulder, and then digging into collar bone a little bit. It was worried, a favorited spot that would remind him of her days after with the way it turned such a beautiful shade of purple. 

Harper’s laughter brims, stutters somewhere in his chest. His first instinct is to retreat, hastily as possible. If that’s him beign coward, so be it. This kind of looks he’s not used to. He stays, however, maybe because he feels too rooted in the ground to make a move, or maybe because of the unmistakable timber under her tone. He’s not going to tuck a tail between his legs and wave a white flag this time. Much as Harper might long for his solitary haven, he’s here now, so he might as well face what’s in front of him.

It’s clear she doesn’t expect an answer to her words, not when the topic is quickly changed even if the flush on his face is still strong. Harper’s hyper aware of it, cheeks burning.

“Oh I have them.” Harper’s quick to assure her. It’s just that he doesn’t very much like using them. And as it happens it doesn’t often please him, if he’s forced to deal with humanity the least he could do is make it as unpleasant of an experience as possible. “It’s not very often that someone can make me,” He fixes her with an arched brow that’s a silent dare. Making him would mean dealing with him.

“Maybe, maybe not.” Harper smiles, breathing easier now that the attention isn’t on him. He’s got no problems when it’s his crafts that are taking the spotlight. “But I guess you won’t have a way of knowing for sure.” Still he can’t quite help but hide the flicker of pride on his face when his work seems to be appreciated.

“But that doesn’t change the fact that you want to be made, you want someone to make you..isn’t that right?” It’s another question and perhaps this time he’d attempt to coax her into paying up her end of this little makeshift bargain. Either way, she would have rewarded good behavior, easily - openly. The words are matter of fact, as if he’s entirely see through and on display, a certain vulnerability that no one really likes. The irony, is that so many of them need to be seen, need to be appreciated for everything in the hand they don’t show. 

He held the woman’s gaze for a second, before finding himself uncomfortable under such scrutiny, wondering what she saw when she looked at him. It’d been longer than weeks since he had last done it himself. Clearing his throat, Harper mirrored her, head tipped to one side, curls falling over his brows.  “Sometimes.” He agreed, broad shoulders twitching.

Harper almost misses it when her fingers reach up, and he goes still, caught in the novelty of being touched. Even if it’s as simple as brushing the stray locks away. It’s frightening how easy is for a few simple words to get him unrattled so easily, rendering him unsure of the sincerity of them. Yet, she looks it, eyes honest as could be in their boldness. Color rushes to his face, Harper’s mouth hangs open for a long second, lost for words, before he finds his voice: “Right.” He mutters, shifting away from her fingers just so. “If you say so.”

He traces the small motion of her fingers, falling on the ring that circles her finger, Harper’s almost curious to see it up close, the finer details of the craftsmanship. Her stamen doesn’t breathe much faith in the city’s future. But what will come , will come, there’s not much point in dwelling on the past. “Is that a comment on my manners?” Harper asked, his face twisting in a grin, making him appear younger. It’s not the first time his social skills would be called to question. Usually, it was in much graceless manner.

“It’s how I was born.” The God admits, reaching down to tug the pant leg enough to reveal the prosthetic underneath. It’s well made, his own creation. He’s proud of it, it shows on his face. “I’m afraid it’s not much of a tale there.”

His reaction betrays him, because it tells an entirely different secret than his mouth does. It’s that same reaction that makes her want to do it more, to continue to pull the right enticement out of him until he believes it. Until he can see that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and there is little she’s found in this town that could be quite as precious as he is in that moment. It’s not sympathy she had, and maybe it should have been, but sympathy was too close to pity. It always felt like an emotion that didn’t deserve as much credit, instead its appreciation for whatever flaws he was still hiding. It’s desire, to give as much as she fully intended to take, and it’s a sort of wayward affection for the way the blush suited cheeks. 

“Don’t dismiss it.”  The demand in her tone is less subtle this time, and instead the words are meant to me a little more intense, a little more passionate. “You’re beautiful, especially that color, and it has the ability to make one never want to stop touching you, but I believe you told me something about what I want already...” A coy tease is mixed in to the tone now, fingers tapping her chin with a small chuckle before seeming to forget about it, moving on to the topic he’d changed to. 

“You say manners like you have them. I’m willing to bet you only say please when you’re made to.”  Implication pops back up again, those same fingers he’d been watching playing against her leg, index tracing a line there that could have been for nothing more than keeping his attention, or promising distraction. It’s her, however, that ends up distracted when he finally pulls up that pant leg to reveal the first of what could only be many secrets.

“Not much of a tale and yet you’ve still kept it a secret, makes that seem like a little bit of a lie, no?”  It was an honest question, a suggestion that came with her leaning forward, paying attention - appreciating his work, really, eyes wandering over every detail. “And it is a shame, really.”  Shes looking up and finding his eyes again. “Because art comes in many forms, and you should know by now that, that, is one of them.” 

“Right now?” Harper asked, the answer a tossup. “To get the upper hand.” It’s a guess, mostly. His eyes dart to weight the expression on her face, see if he’s right. “To get your answers. To win.” Sometimes a victory was just about the victory, prizes be damned.

She seems to be familiar with the sting of being betrayed, if Harper is to judge by the flick of her brows. He answers the unspoken question with a soft shrug of his own. “And yet you are hopeful for this,” He looks around, motioning with a brief gesture as if to encompass the whole city in the sweep of a finger. “little attempt at survival?”

Harper sighs deeply, gives another one of his attempts at mirth. It comes out just as dry as the rest. “I can’t say I’m much for niceties.” Looking at her, to continue: “But I can do fair. If you are willing to answer the same questions you wanna ask. Fair is fair after all.”  

Speaking of prizes, it seemed they were both on the same train of thought, because her head seemed to cant. It was interest, plain and simple, looking at him as if she were sizing him up for a moment. “Sometimes its more about the spoils than the victory itself, the prize.”  There is a way that eyes seek out his that says that things she’s not yet vocalized, that implies that he - he was the prize that she wanted. To add to the suggestion, there is the beginning of a game played, tongue tracing the line of bottom lip for a moment. Her first move, if you will. 

“You.”  Finally stated, tasting the word as it was said, really wrapping her lips around it in the absence of his actual name. “Would make a beautiful prize.”  The compliment, the praise really - it comes to her easily, and this time when hand reached up, fingers did touch him. It was slight, hair pushed back from his forehead just a bit, just to see him better, attempt to see all of him. While the gesture itself was soft, there was a clear power in those hands, and one that she would love to use to turn him into a mess of broken moans and fragmented thoughts, to replace every bit of sense he had with nothing else but desperation, so expertly mixed that he’d beg to have it, beg to be taken, again, and again. 

“This is better than out there, and I have always loved an underdog.”  She admits with a little bit of a laugh, enjoying the irony in that honestly as hand would eventually fall back to her own lap. Fingers played idly with the ring that occupied a single finger while she spoke. “There is a time and place for a proper please, and thank you.”  Point made on purpose, following the shrug of his shoulders. 

“And what is it you think I want?” He’s quick to dismiss the victory that usually falls into her lap, even if it does require a little more work that some others might have. It’s the ones that hold out, the ones with a fight in them that make success a little more satisfying, a little more important. No one has ever fully appreciated something they didn’t have to work for, something they didn’t have to fight for.

The question about betrayal strikes her interest, evident in the way that brow perks just a little bit, as if asking the question before vocalizing it entirely. It’s a clear indication that he knows the feeling well, obviously. “Far more experience with betrayal than unity or loyalty.” No one ever pledged either to her and meant it, not yet at least. Betrayal was a far been conductor of war than any of the others, and sometimes it even won them. Irony, in its finest form.

She finds that same laugh is quite an experience, even though it’s meant to be rough around the edges. Instead, the last little hints of steel in it are oddly attractive, because they are real, something you can feel, even if he is being a brat. The action fuels the way expression stays there, lingers on her like a stray that’s found the perfect new home. “We might not always get what we want, but I very often do.” She admits with an edge of humor, her own laughing lifted to meet his.

She reclines back against the wall behind them a little bit, clearly helping herself to his personal space but not quite touching him. It’s the implication that she wants to, that she will, that’s allowed to tease the air between them. It’s subtle, and for now so is she. “For as much war as I’ve seen, people will find the strangest things to bond over. Unity will always surprise you, it’s loyalty that’s the real bitch.” She laughs again, sounding just this side of bitter, perhaps its a reflection she didn’t care for.

Her hand slips down, almost again as if it’s going to settle overtop that knee but doesn’t. It’s then that she turns to look at him, really look at him. It’s probably the first time the scar that touches her face is completely visible - she wears what’s wrong with her, what’s ugly, so unbelievably well - or maybe with a strange acceptance many others don’t know. If anyone appreciates scars, the marred hints of imperfection that haunt even the best of them, it’s her. The stories, the stories in the skin make it a kind of beautiful that those without flaws can’t understand.