come on over, help me forget

[baemeric]

[ She should be ashamed of herself.

There is much to do. There always is, but she cannot quite recall a time when things have been so hectic; the Alliance petitioning Ishgard to rejoin, the threat of the Horde increasing, a primal, here, in their own lands -

- and still her mind wanders, settling and sticking in the one place it always does when the want knots up in her body like an ache. She pushes through. Ishgard needs her, now more than ever, and she will not disgrace her position by pining like a maiden from old stories. And then an opportunity presents itself: the Azure Dragoon himself, sighted in Ishgard. A rarer occurrence these days, given his determination to draw Nidhogg's attention elsewhere, but that only makes her more determined. She sends for him. This is entirely innocuous; why would she not wish to speak to the Azure Dragoon when the Dravanian threat seems so pressing?

Less innocuous is the way she arranges for final adjustments to be taking place on a dress when she expects him to arrive, or the order to have him sent directly to her quarters. She needs the gown for upcoming events in any case, and Estinien has been distant of late; if he arrives and sees her in this, with her shoulders bared and the flowing skirt of it accentuating how it nips in at her waist and accentuates the rise of her breasts -

well, then she must write the whole affair off as done with, and try her best to recover. Perhaps a broken heart will prompt her to focus fully on her work, as a distraction.

She'll find out soon enough. There is a knock, and she dismisses her attendant with a smile. ]

Estinien! Thank you for making time for me.

Comments

[baemeric]

[ She should take off the dress, at the very least. She doesn't. Estinien curls his arm around her, guides her down and softly kisses the back of her neck, and she can't bring herself to do anything that might disrupt the cozy warmth of it. What a picture they must be: her in a soiled gown, him in only his tunic, the both of them sweaty and wrung-out by their exertions. Ridiculous. Still, she wouldn't trade it. So she settles in, grateful for the press of him still inside her, and picks up the arm he has draped over her to kiss the back of his hand and thread her fingers through his. A fraction of what she would say to him, but as much as she dares. ]