#Cedra Court moments

[brooklynislandgirl]

@ronmanmob {{xx}}

Where someone else might not think so, Beth finds something inherently sensual about discussing personal and physical boundaries outside of the bedroom. What soft and hard lines exist, how much trust and willingness is given to one's partner, what wants and dislikes one might have while under the covers not of the bed but civility. Tea steeping away while coffee is sipped and savoured mid-afternoon, and quietly posed questions careful in their structure. Conversation had against ears that are just breath and warm cheeks and a sense of insular intimacy while in the centre of a crowded restaurant. Over the course of seven years, as they grew closer inch by inch, emotion by emotion, Beth and Ron have discussed the things they are comfortable with, what turns him on, what she imagines lovemaking to be like, the curious differences between men and women ~something he has experience with and she admittedly doesn't~ and by the time they naturally arrive at being together li'dat, there is very little they don't understand about one another's sexuality. And with that comes a road-map so they know where and when they can go exploring. She'd waited until Ron's stars aligned and approached it great care, so as not to spook the part of him that might take her desire poorly. A few slight words in place of silk scarves, whispered in a confidence she is rarely robed in. He'd not stomach anything more binding. Beth would certainly be willing to trust him with that, hampering her ability to move with anything between his warm, broad hands to special silk rope but she doesn't make the same correlations as he might. They agree that hug-jackets are horrific for all they're meant to safely restrain. She needs the illusion of freedom, and so she doesn't fault him for his own lack of consent. But she knows, too, that as long as she asks so sweetly, and he agrees to it, there's nothing in the world more binding. At least until she stokes his fire to the point it becomes a conflagration. She's delightfully surprised when his body rises and flows not unlike the rushing adoration of the sea so quickly when she touches him. Speaks to his emotional state far better than any words between them, and her answer comes as her fingertips flutter around his calves. She pulls herself up slightly so that she can fully see his mouth, mouth curved in a sultry grin and eyes molten like the fire in the belly of the world. Her palms slide upward toward his knees and she leans into him, basking against his most sensitive skin with all the softness of hers. Allows him to feel the steady drumming of her heart as the song of her pulse increases in tempo. How her breath is just as erratic as his own. "All mine." She echoes and nods, the approval of his offering indicating that he said it perfectly, and what's more? She believes him. She hears him, and maybe more...that if he asks her to stop, to take a moment, to not do something or repeat it again and again, that she will hear him then, too. She turns toward her left and once more affixes her mouth on his skin. This time her tongue wielded like a fine paint-brush traces the lines of his lowest ink. Follows their patterns, then doubles back on itself and forges new connections amongst the pigments. The blood rushing through his femoral artery warms her lips. She has different ways to communicate, though, and seeks to tease him even if she can't afford him words. She grazes his most delicate skin with the idea of her nail tips. Not a scratch, not a pinch but an outlining. A mimic of her tongue on his kākau ever so slowly. Tenderly. A promise that in due time she will taste the whole of him.

[brooklynislandgirl]

Beth had the world's best intentions when she mentioned she might pick up breakfast on the way home. Overnights are often the worst shifts to take because mornings tend to be late, and making rounds and shift change a nightmare of an interminable slog. Then there were lines that seemed to go out the doors of all the places that they have tried, tested, and deemed safe for consumption between his particularities and hers. At this point she might look into hiring a cook for them or take up Auntie May's countless offers to feed them. Though that latter sticks in her craw, considering the woman's age and the firm belief from some parts of his family that this stage in life, they should be able to make something so simple as toast soldiers between them. She's greeted by the pack save Claude and at first she doesn't sense something amiss, giving each of the dogs a gentle pat and sweetly murmured words. Just in case Ron's dozed off, she doesn't call out to wake him but does take a moment at the door to slide out of her shoes and put her bag and her jacket on the peg by the door. Next, breakfast is tucked away on the kitchen counter where good boys and girls wouldn't dream of jumping up and helping themselves. This done, Beth takes a sip of coffee from her travel mug and forges into the rest of the flat. There, she finds Claude, lying low at Ron's feet, staring up intently. Finds her Kanuha sitting in his chair, head down, his body screaming misery and for a moment she honestly can't tell if it's his head, or his body, or both at once betraying him. She approaches slowly though is careful not to be too close. Not because she's afraid that he'll lash out, never that. Beth simply does not wish to add more stress until he's able to understand she is there. That she isn't some thing dredged up from the pit of his basement where he keeps his imposed horrors. That she is real and warm and loves him. Beth gently draws the curtains shut. Light only makes migraines worse. Very softly she says, "I'm here now, Ronnie. Would you like f' me make ya one cup of tea?"

@brooklynislandgirl

..He's sitting..Sitting still, yeah..Yes..Head's down..Heavy..Pounding..It's pounding..Hurts..Too heavy..Why's he looking left?..What's left?..Windows!..Light's too bright..The curtains, Ron..Shut 'em..SHUT 'EM!!..He can't..WON'T..No, can't..It's too much..There's too many..He's naked..He's NOT though..You're lying..Liar..See the dressing gown? He's touching its cuff..Look at 'im..Pathetic..Can't move..Won't move..Keep still..Keep still Ron, don't look..The cup..He's looking at the cup..Blue..It's blue, dark..Full..No, not full..He's drunk a sip..Ronnie..Ronnie..HE'S DRUNK A SIP.. RONNIE?!? WHAT'VE YOU DONE RONNIE!?!..

Where he sat, trembling and stiff, Ron jerked like he'd been shot. A sickly laugh, voiceless to the rest of the room, oozed up between his ears. Had he words to put to it, he'd call it evil. Weren't nothing he wanted less than--

.. ..Cunt winced!..

--than it's company.

..Scared 'im look..Poor bunny..Broken, 'ee's broken, May!..Broke 'im, didn't it, losing-- Rose..Why's his head in his hands now? Why's it low..Why's he scratching..S'like 'ee was..Rockin', broke in 'is room dahn Vallance..Aw Ron, why's y'not fixed? Why's y'not tryin'.

[tarantinolovesmyfeet]

Devotion and Desire (Harwin Strong Fic)

part 3

Summary: Nymeria finally lands in Kingslanding, but they are in the middle of a political game.

The walk towards Rhaenyra’s room had the king's guards looking at the pair as they walked hand in hand. Rhaenyra was a bright light in the dark halls while they walked together, with Nymeria looking at the paintings. “Tell me everything about Dorne, “ she said while walking together. “Is it hot all the time, and are snakes everywhere?” “Well…no to the snakes part, but it is rather hot all the time; you could see the dresses I’ve brought; I’m sure I can’t wear them here.” “Oh?” she asked with a smirk gracing her face. “I would love to see these dresses, and you can show me with you in them.” “Of course, to my dismay, you are taller than I.” “Yes, you are rather short.” She said, smiling, still pulling her along. “I’ll tell my ladies in waiting to go gather your stuff.” “Cedra will be there, I am sure, seeing how your father was kind to host us here.” You said over to the Princess as she gave a slight frown. “Hopefully, you will just live here with me.” She said brightly before changing the subject. “Cedra can come too to my room.” “Yes, I believe she will love that.” It was hard to tell now as your fingers were still interlocked. You weren’t sure if the Princess held onto you so tightly because of the fact she had no one but her father, that you were here with her being an outcast, or that she genuinely did like you. She seemed to like Nymeria, her cheeks flushed when their eyes met, and her smile was wide and friendly.  But yet, Nymeria wondered if this was because Alicent and the Princess seemed to be fighting in a deep intense fight; from the way the green girl looked at their hands entwined together, it was clear there was an emotion unclear which it was. 

Yet Nymeria won't complain because as much as Rhaenyra wants to trust you, the Dornish girl wants to trust her and wants to be in her fold; she wants to be an ally and a trusted friend. It was better for the girl's sake and Dorne's sake to be on the good side of the princess; even if she was fascinated by the princess and was very much enthralled, she was here for Dorne, and she couldn't forget it. 

The girls rushed into each other clothes gushing over one another. Nymeria could see Cedra with a small smile, watching the pair. Cedra seemed to be wise beyond her years, and Nymeria knew at the moment she would always have her as a right-hand woman. She didn’t trust much of anyone else outside her family, but she could trust her. Rhaenyra laughed as she put on the petite girl's dress, and they both knew it would be a scandal if she went out like that. “You would cause all the ladies in court to faint, Rhaenyra.” Nymeria giggled loudly into her goblet; the pair drank pretty heavily as they laughed loudly, and Rhaenyra's cheeks were ruddy, instantly showcasing she was drunk. 

“All the ladies in court have a stick up their ass,” Rhaenyra said, giggling and spinning in Nymeria’s dress. “Now, my queen, in waiting, you can’t speak poorly of your court.” Nymeria teased her as she watched her spin around the room. Nymeria laid on her stomach, allowing herself to become one with the bed, watching the heir spin. “You’re going to get sick.” “It will be the first time I feel alive in a long time.” She said, still giggling, as Nymeria furrowed her eyebrows, glancing at Cedra before looking over at the princess. She was alone, which showed even more as they giggled and teased one another. It showed as she twirled and twirled in Nymeria’s dress, and her words may seem happy, but they always had a rain cloud over them. Nymeria got up, watching the Princess try to spin as much as she could until she felt sick. The girl grabbed Rhaenyra’s wrist, ending the spinning and causing the heir to fall into her chest. “Are you all right?” Nymeria asked her as Rhaenyra giggled, now rubbing her face into the dronish girl's breast. “You are rather beautiful.” She mumbled, now doing it again, causing Nymeria to look over at Cedra, giving a signal to get the princess’s ladies out of the room. They left without much fuss; she assumed they knew they wouldn’t want to see her like this. If Otto or anyone else were to question them, they didn’t have to lie to any of them. It was a rather smart move on their end. Nymeria gathered the Princess by the waist and pulled her into her bed. “Yes, this is what I wanted.” She mumbled, her lips pressed to Nymeria’s neck. 

Nymeria felt her body get warm over her words and the warmth pooling in her stomach. So the Princess did have an attraction to her, as she did to the Princess. It was relatively quick, she knew, but Nymeria believed Rhaenyra hadn't gotten affection in some time, so she understood it. She sighed softly as her teeth equally as soft grazed her neck. Nymeria couldn't want this but did, and she knew the scandal it could cause if anyone found out. She pursed her lips at the thought, and the Princess's hands slowly brushed against her breast. "Now, all you had to do was ask." "And you would simply listen to me?" Rhaenyra asked, looking over at Nymeria as she smiled down at her; it was more of a smirk. Her eyes were full of fire, and her smirk was mischievous, almost like the cat who got the cream. "You are my queen, after all." She said slowly and softly, "But…." She said as Rhaenyra's lips moved closer to her. "But?" "Who would I be if I simply gave in to you right now? Do you think you deserve it?" "Yes, I'm the heir." She said in a bratty tone causing Nymeria to laugh at her. "What?" "And I am a Dornish woman; you wait when I say it's to go." She said, kissing her now on the tip of her nose. "You are so drunk, I couldn't do it." "Why not?" She pouted, endearing her even more to Nymeria, and she couldn't wait to kiss her full on the mouth. "Because, my dear, I want you to remember this even happened, and then we can talk about everything else." "You sneaky sneaky creature!" she shouted loudly with shrill laughter. "You are so rude to your princess." "Indeed, and you like it." She teased now as she pulled her in to cuddle and cuddle only. "We have a long day tomorrow, and you must rest." Before the rest of the words came out, the Princess was fast asleep, buried in her side. Nymeria prayed that she wouldn't get hurt or in trouble for this, but then again, she is family. 

How could she?

The morning sun shone into the room, hitting the girls who lay in bed cuddled with one another in the face, more so Nymeria than Rhaenyra, causing her to move in her sleep. There were hush words from Rhaenyra, but it was slurred into sleep. Nymeria woke up blurry-eyed and head in ache from last night's events. Her arm was asleep, from the weight of the princess on her. She groaned as she tried to slip away from her, but she was like a sea creature, wiggly and arms still wrapped around the Dornish girl.  The door to her bed chambers was pushed open; Nymeria's eyes widened seeing the princess's knights and her brother waltzing in with Cedra behind him. “Have I woken you from your slumber?” he teased, now looking at the pair of them. “Or did you sleep with the princess?” “I did no such thing,” Nymeria said back to him, rolling her eyes. “She just was drunk, and I rather her here than make a spectral of herself.” “Ah yes, saving my lady virtue,” he teased. “Too bad rumors light ones, of course, nothing the court is saying…just the queen.  She may have slept with her uncle Prince Daemon. The reason why the rogue one isn’t here.” Nymeria rolled her eyes as she laid back in bed, with Darvos placing himself on edge. He smiled over at her and then over to the princess. “You two gotten close.” “She was lonely,” Nymeria said back to him. “And she’s sweet, unlike the queen.” “Hm. Maybe so, but the Queen looks more jealous than anything.” He smirked. “Imagine a Hightower jealous of a Dornish woman, they see us as trash, and here we are showing them we are in their ranks and better than them.” “Oh, Darvos fuck off.” Nymeria glanced around the room and saw Cedra preparing her bed chambers to get ready for the day. She pulled out a golden dress and set her water up to clean her face and body. She sighed deeply, looking over at the Princess as she held her tight. “You should get ready,” Darvos said, now getting up. “You need to make yourself known at court, get the way of the lands, and grab allies for you and the princess. Also, maybe a husband.” She sat up, allowing the pillow to support her back, and the Princess's face, now in her lower stomach, ignored the warming feeling. She watched Darvo's back, wide and covered in mustard color again; the robe on his back was light and lined with black, his hair slicked back in a ponytail. He looked around the room as he discussed Nymeria's future, and she watched him. 

“Now I need a husband.” “In this place, you do and are of marriage age. I am told the king is throwing a feast for you arriving, and I know it will have men lined up to marry into this bloodline, half or not. Dornish or not…these men will do anything to be Targaryen. So pick the best one out of the crows that pick at the bloody coins that this family history is covered in.” “You speak so highly in their house, in their bed chambers as a guest.” She reminded him as he looked at her with a distasted look over his shoulder. “Indeed.” He almost sneered. “In. Deed.” He repeated. “But I am not wrong; history does not lie.” “Hm, you be mindful of your emotions.” She warned him as they both stared at each other, trying to convey a message. 

She felt the princess move and was awake, but Nymeria put her hand between her shoulder blades to keep her steady. To now let Darvos know she is up because she didn’t want either party to act in a way they will both regret. 

"I understand." He said, now looking at her. "Now it's time to get up; if you are to stay here in this home, you need allies, and sure as hell, the princess does. The Hightowers are leeches, and I can smell their betrayal coming, and you both better be prepared for it." He walked out quickly, letting the door slam; Nymeria knew she just knew Darvos was upset with her. There was always an underlying message between them, and she could feel it. She would speak to him alone with no preying ears but now isn't the time. She pushed her hand off the Princess's back, allowing her to get up. "So…did I wake up at the right time?" She asked with her eyes still bleary from sleep, and Nymeria smiled over to her, now cusping her cheek. "Princess, you woke up at the perfect time." She said with a smile, looking over at the girl, and Rhaenyra looked like she was in thought. "Your brother doesn't seem to like us." "Hm, he just is upset about the treatment we got from the Hightowers, is all, and I suspect you don't like the treatment either." She chuckled, looking over at Nymeria with a soft smile. "You are not wrong in your thoughts, Otto is a leech, and he will do anything for power, will ruin my name for it for his daughter and my brothers." "You mean Aegon?" She asked as the girl nodded. "But you're the heir, and he can't do anything about it." The girls looked at each other with agreeing on smiles, Rhaenyra looked not sure if Nymeria's statement was correct, but she wanted to believe it. She had to believe it if she was to carry the burden of being the heir. "But what if he can?" She voiced her thoughts as Nymeria sighed, cupping the girl's cheek. "My Princess, it's time for Westro's to follow Dorne's footsteps, the firstborn is the heir and I will defend my life for you and your children when you have them." "I will rather be a warrior." She said, rolling her eyes as Nymeria laughed. "You could be a warrior princess who can bear heirs." She winked over to her. "The best of both worlds." Rhaenyra begrudgingly said while rolling her eyes. "I think it's time we both get up and ready, I believe my father said he wants to throw you a feast." "Is your father ever this kind to others?" Rhaenyra got up from the bed with ease, turning her head to look over at Nymeria before answering. She looked her over as the sheets still draped around her body. "You are a cousin from a sister that was pushed out; I think my father rather have peace more Tarygaryen in our line. It makes the family strong, and others in Westeros will not dare to question him as a king." "You are politically inclined… that's good if you're to sit on the Iron Throne; always be by your father's side Rhaenyra. Don't let them see you as weak."

Rhaenyra looked over at Nymeria with a perked eyebrow; she watched over Nymeria with a new look of approval and almost now with an understanding of Nymeria. They see each other for who they are, and there is a kindred spirit and trust. Rhaenyra knew Nymeria could have made her look harmful to her brother and heard that she didn’t and gave her word about protecting her family. An honorable woman and that made Rhaenyra know she gathered a great ally in her soon-to-be court. 

Davos was not lying about finding a husband; she knew he was right. She knew she was of age and should be wed. Her father tried to remind her; that she should be married, but Davos pushed the idea off. If Nymeria was unwed, she could enter King's landing and get a husband there. She needed allies, and he knew a marriage pact was perfect. Nymeria didn’t like being a game piece to her brother later, but she understood why he was doing it. She also questioned why he wasn’t married, but her brother said 

“Well, I want to make great allies to Nymeria.”  She thought that was odd, but she would not push it. She sighed deeply as she walked around the red keep now. She knew she would have to be friendly and leave Rhaenyra to her duties if she had any. So she couldn’t be kept by her side at all times like she wanted to, but she figured Rhaenyra would find her if she wanted to. She did mention dragons to her. Nymeria was wrapped in a gold dress, the slit in the front was being held with a light black rope, and she tugged them to close the silt more. It was an added piece now moving to Westeros, She knew she would have to dress more “lady-like” here, but she also knew it would keep her warmer. Her hair, flowing minus the front, pinned back into a braid. Allowing them to see her face as she walked around. She wanted to see her horse Star-Fyre, so she walked to the horse's chambers. “She’s rather small for a Targaryen.”She heard whispers around her as she walked on.  

“Did you see her always dressed in Dorne colors? Are we even sure she is the true Dragon blood?” She pursed her lips as she continued walking through, feeling increasingly insecure as she went on. Whispers around her about her not being good enough or even worthy of being a Targaryen; she kept her head up high, but truly deep down inside, she wanted to cry.  She didn’t move faster even though she tried to run; she just kept at her pace, letting them know she did not bother them. 

When she reached the horse, she didn’t see anyone working. She shrugged as she walked inside, trying to find her baby. She sighed deeply as her horse neighed loudly over to her, and she smiled. “Hi, Star-Fyre. Are you happy?” She rubbed him nuzzled as he pushed against her hand but neigh lowly. “No? Are you lonely?” the horse pushed into her hand again as she laughed a bit; before she could say anything else, she heard a creak from the door. She spun quickly, looking over at the curly hair man she had seen before; he was rather tall and had broad shoulders. His curls were down around his face, and his hazel eyes looked over her as she looked back at him. He smiled before bowing a bit. “My lady, I didn’t mean to startle you.” He said as she smiled at him. 

“It’s fine; you are quite quiet for your size.” She said. “Almost nimble, must be good for your line of work.” “Indeed.” He said, looking over at her. “Sometimes not so much, like now.” She giggled, and she was horrified. She’s never giggled like this before, and she could feel her ears warming up. She felt embarrassed over the noise and bit her lip, trying to conceal any emotion. “He’s beautiful…your horse.” “Yes,” She said, letting go of her lip, now looking at him and Harwin's eyes still on her, with that warm smile. “He's fast as well; Dorne is known for fast horses.” “We should have a race, you and I,” He said, moving closer with a different smile, and she perked an eyebrow over to him. “I don’t even know your name.” She teased as his eyebrows rose, and he laughed a bit. “I forget myself.” He said, now putting his hand out, and Nymeria put her hand into it; his hands were calloused, warm, and relatively large compared to her petite hand. He brought it gently to his lips, and she watched him as he watched her. “Ser Harwin Strong.” He said over to her. His lips brushed against her knuckles. She smiled, almost smitten, not wholly smitten. She could wrap her fingers into his curls and pull at them. His lips looked soft and delicious against hers; she looked back at him and noticed he was watching her. “Nymeria Targaryen.” She said the last name was still new but ignored the feeling. “The talk of court right now.” He said softly as he towered over her. “It’s been nice to not have whispers be about the Princess.” “Have their whispers?” “Yes, loads. My sisters love the gossip.” He teased with a smile. “but it’s all gossip, no truth to it.” “I believe your words.” She smiled at him. “seems like you have a fondness for the Princess?” She asked, now looking over at him. “She to be our Queen; it’s treason to not like her.” He teased back as she narrowed her eyes. “I think she’s a lovely girl, trapped with enemies.” “Yes, it seems like we are in similar boats.” She said back to him, and he perked an eyebrow at her. “And You, are you ready for a Queen to sit on the Iron Thorne?” She knew she was giving him whiplash, but she had to know his thoughts. She had to tell because she couldn’t be smitten with a traitor and men who couldn’t see a woman ruling. There is plenty of men in Dorne that would not mind a queen, and she would go back to them to get wed. “She is the heir and has every right to be on the throne.” He said to her. “She is to be always protected.” She rolled her lips as she looked up at him, even more smitten. He looked at her and was serious with his words as if it was an Oath, and she loved it. She loved when men bent the knee to a woman, and she couldn’t believe this man was for it. “I can’t wait for her to be our Queen.” all Nymeria said back as he nodded to her. “I would like to have that race…with you.” He laughed now, causing Star-Fyre to neigh loudly over to them, and the pair looked over at the horse. He was nodding his head up and down and neigh again. “I think he’s excited about it,” Harwin said as she looked back at him. “Yes, I think he is…I am as well.” She smiled, calming Star Fyre, and Harwin smirked at her. 

She pets Star Fyre to soothe him; she turns her head to Harwin as he smiles at her. “I heard there will be a feast for your arrival.” He said as she nodded her head now. “And among other things.” “Among other things, you mean my hand in marriage?” She asked as he let out a huff of a laugh. “Yes, I supposed it would be.” “You like any of the lads?” “I just got here.” She teased him. “But I may have my eye on one.” “Oh really?” His interest was piqued. “I wonder who the lucky lad is.” “Hmm.” She said, now letting go of Star-Fyre's nuzzle; she turned on her heel to walk out and listened to see if Harwin followed. He purposely made sounds with his feet causing her to smile. “I think you know.” “Oh, do I?” he asked, letting out a little laugh. “well, I hope him the best of luck; many men will be there.” “Yes, I would suppose so.” She said, feeling his presence next to her, and he was so warm, instantly warming her up from the cool air around her. “I think…we should race tomorrow.” She said, now looking at him. “So quickly?” He asked. “I don’t know if my horse is ready.” He winked as she rolled her eyes at him. 

“Yes, I think tomorrow would be a perfect day. Who knows when the feast will be? I would like to understand the culture here more.” She said to him, and he smirked back over at her. “Tomorrow it is….before dawn?” He asked as she nodded her head over to him, as they walked more in public, and she saw the courtly ladies watching them. 

“Before Dawn, it is.” She said, and she smiled back at him. He quickly grabbed her hand and gave it another kiss. “I must be off, my lady.” He said, “Kings Watch Duty.” He said as she nodded her head over to him. “Till Tomorrow, Ser Harwin.” She said over to him as he nodded his head walking away. Nymeria couldn’t wait for tomorrow and burst at the seams over it. She couldn’t wait for her time with Harwin; she knew his name now and could talk to him with no one around. As she went off to tell Cedra, she saw Rhaenyra approaching her with a wide smile. “We have a dragon to meet!” 

[brooklynislandgirl]

"--D'you get--?" Ron's question paused as he reached for Beth, glancing up from his book towards the kitchen. It was a recipe book he had open that contained some delicious sounding ideas he fancied trying, but the moment his mind lit on that notion and his eyes flicked up to the kitchen...something inside him sort of...felt...heavy? Overwhelmed but not in the I gotta escape sense, just...

The vocabulary wasn't with him. He needed another brain on this. Hence, a gentle touch of fingers to Beth's forearm.

"...Is it wiv cookin', luv, i's all...too many steps? Got th'step by step-" He gestured to the book, regarding Beth curiously as he tried to explain the grief he was having. "Got th'energy. Wanna do it, jus'...Y'go t'do it 'n it becomes a billion steps 'n which is first? Where'd I start? S'too many, so put it dahn 'n get a cuppa instead?"

Beth has been hovering on the edges of the counters. Her rather problematic relationship with food being what it is, she can't help but to want to nose around. Settle into the idea of a meal much in the way some folk do a too-warm bath. Just a bit at a time. Acclimation. The spinach looks fresh, the cheese does not immediately put her off, were it not for the tomatoes coming in a tin, she would have gleefully crushed them in her own small fists and letting the juices run between her fingers. Not a thing wrong with the ingredients, then. Of course maybe the wine is the star, but she doesn't touch for lack of knowing if it's going in, or to be savoured along side the food. Ron graces her with the herald of touch and that moment allows her not to flinch. She likes that better than she likes the wine, and so she abandons her project of stacking the penne noodles in little log cabin configurations. She nods in her silence. Follows his shepherding toward the cookbook, then right back to his face, his mouth. Her lips part and close a time or two, almost like a goldfish as she searches for her own contribution. "Madmatics all wrong. Fractions an' decimals for ingredients. Ratios, yields, percentages. Dey beautiful an' precise...it's da moving parts dat don'...don'...Algebra all wonky. Results...non-Euclidean." She frowns. Ron understands the need for numbers to bear true. In many ways his life tends to run on them, especially eights. Infinities. Another pause, an even quieter voice. "Andy says always start wi' prep. Have every kind in its...mise en place. Dat is where ya start. Cut veggies. Measure an' mix up dairy. Boil waddah for pasta, pinch of salt for flavour an' for some alchemy I don' understand dat make it not stick. I can chop if you give me da kine... dat needs cutting. I know how to dice, chiffonade, all kines. But I t'ink we should have a cuppa togeddah, an' start ovah. No Colonel go into battle wi'out his armour, yeah?"

[brooklynislandgirl]

Playlist Title: Lazy Sunday

Tunes || Accepting

I. Coastline || Hollow Coves II. Autumn in New York || Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald III. Just The Way You Are || Diana Krall IV. I Just Dropped BY To Say Hello || Johnny Hartman V. Hope || Old Sea Brigade VI. Made to Find You || Belle Mt. VII. Irreplaceable || Chad Lawson VIII. That Moon Song || Gregory Alan Isakov IX. Dirty Paws || Of Monsters and Men X. La Vie en Rose || Emily Watts

[brooklynislandgirl]

An antiqued bulb cast warm, low light on the couple who lay entwined; a tawny leg hooked over a broad, ink-painted shoulder the only sight of them glass and filament could make out from its perch upon a distant, stout armoire. All it knew was that they'd not been there too long, and that something silky and lacy and barely there at all had been thoughtlessly discarded before a head of cropped, jet black hair dipped low and nudged from she who owned the lean appendage draped over that shoulder the most erotic sound.

A purr of equally sensual enjoyment escaped on the breath Ron let out and then drew in again near Beth's skin; his nose and lips at home upon her pubic bone and drifting southwards, kiss by kiss, at a torturously, purposefully languid pace. Nothing bar Beth begging him to would make him rush. He enjoyed worshipping her like this far too much, and he told her so-

"--luv th'taste'a yah"

-in the same sultry tone he'd suggesting retiring early in. Eyes that most thought were black and doll-like, dead of feeling, shone in the inviting dim their natural rich, chocolate brown as Ron gazed between kisses up along Beth's dusky planes; lean and supple and stunning to him, for all it'd taken a little time for him to understand precisely how. A broad hand stroked upwards from her hipbone to the very base of her ribs as he bent his head to continue his worshipping, another of those sensual purrs - encouragement, affection and want shot through it - easing free as his lips parted and he sampled again that taste.

Sense and Sensibility || Accepting

For all the night might be damp and the rain pattering a hymn from far asea against the windows of Cedra Court, it isn't her Mother's embrace that she feels, nor is it that particular dance that sweeps through Ron's soul. The moment is theirs alone and his breath is a sirocco against her own shores. One that raises her back as a perfectly arched question mark, that is paired with a sound that might be carved out of a particularly sinful sultry answering breath. The sole of one small foot flattens against his back ~nebulous ground between scapular muscle and intercostals. Toes curl and dig in to remind him of their presence. She'd been no lamb to the slaughter after supper when she reclined on the far end of the sofa, nimble fingers and slender needles knitting yet another one of the dozens of afghans she'd worked diligently on to donate to Battersea ~he'd mentioned that the walls were slightly cool the last time he'd gone to spend time with the dogs there and she hated the idea of any one of the animals knowing cold~ while Ron'd been reading in his chair as was his wont. She was preternaturally aware when he'd placed his marker and set the tome aside, picked up their cups and placed him into the sink A wink and a heartbeat later, his hands hand rounded against her shoulders. When she tilted her head to the side to better accommodate him, his lips had been at her ear. Her answer was the rush of a smile and the heat that flooded her features. She was certain he could hear her pulse pounding loudly in her ears. His hands had slid her camisole from her body, she'd undone his shirt button by button. Suspenders allowed to hang about his hips. Her skirt had fluttered to the floor before she'd felt the bedding at her back. Felt his hands draw the last barrier of silk and lace from her skin before he'd nestled there. He stokes that ache with his nose, with his mouth, lush lips sliding against sensitive flesh. He'd brought her hips that much closer to his questing tongue by giving one leg up to rest beside his neck. She feels what he says rather than hears it and he most certainly cannot miss the reciprocating slickness that pools within her. She feels like she hovers on the threshold of divinity itself. Her throat is full of broken words, shattered by every pass of a calloused finger or the sweet agony of his tongue, and come out in those fragments of sound, gentled but guttural. She musters a moment when he gives mercy. One hand, previously a claw clutching their sheets in a grip like iron, manages to unclench only to reach down. Nails graze through his shorter locks to leave their spectral passage against his scalp. "Warn ya, Ronnie…I'll exact same same from you because I wan savour ya forevah." No other words see the dim light that gleams against their skin, but neither is she silent either as she writhes beneath him.

[brooklynislandgirl]

@ronmanmob​  {{who liked for a smol starter}}

"Ron?" Smoke soft voice barely announcing her presence. Fingertips graze his shoulder as she slides by him where he's perched on the couch. She's been a transient ghost for most of the day. She does not enjoy Reggie's company and certainly not in their home; and make no mistake, that is what Cedra Court has become. She's given up the separate apartment. She's doesn't count the days down from ninety-to-one now that she's got a work visa and is in the process of becoming a citizen, due largely to her auntie's sponsorship. They share the their bed with their dogs. They share the kitchen, even if it's just reheating the food they've ordered in. This is their home, the first brick of the life they are building. At the same time, she wouldn't dream of trying to be the wedge between Ron and his twin. She knows what would happen if someone had tried that with her, with Andy and she would not be a source of grief for her publican. But she won't volunteer to share hostile space with the carbon copy of him, either. It's for the best. Reg is only a fan of hers insofar as Beth proves there's something... less ...wrong with Ron ~Reg's words, never her own~ and because of the glamour, respectability, and prestige that the Krays have bagged a Riley. It's the money, the history, and the ridiculousness of having peerage in the family that makes him so often solicitous if "Liz". Now that he's gone, and with him, the miasma of discontent, she's re-materialised but in her chest is a troubled heart. She can tell now, without seeing, that Ron's still exerting himself. He's still got his mask in place, as if he's got two musketeers at his side to end his life if it should slip. She sits in front of him, just to the side of Claude and lays a cheek on his knee. "Why you do dat?" A hand rises and claw-like fingers brush the air  in front of her face to indicate the forced countenance he adopts with everyone but her.

[brooklynislandgirl]

@ronmanmob  {{xx}}

From the outside in, there might be more Horlicks nights than might be seemly. Some might argue that there are made up reasons for the too-long wakefulness, that they are cheating themselves out of sleep. Those people are only looking in from outside, are utterly myopic. They do not live with the every day reasons why she or Ron cannot find rest, when the mind is a buzzing hive of grief or anxious energy or a half a dozen other things. And sometimes, sitting round the table in robes and pyjamas, or sometimes just tee-shirts and boxers ~Ron's all the way around and sometimes she thinks she sees a sparkle once in a while in his eyes when she dons them~ or whatever makes them feel comfortable in terms of temperature and textures are concerned. Despite neither of them ever needing to lift a finger in their life, capable of hiring a staff that would befit the estates of royals, Ron and Beth are not the kind of people to take advantage of their situation. He opens the pub daily baring his poorly days or the odd wild hare that has him taking her away from the city, or out with his brother, attending to their other affairs. Those last times are the ones that she is usually keen to stay at home. It isn't that she doesn't enjoy some of the Kray Brothers' fine establishments, but the less time she spends around Reg the better. So after the forty-eight hour week she's put into the hospital and twice that put into the pubs and clubs, this is their moment. Their chance to check in with one another and reconnect. She isn't ashamed to admit she needs that. That she needs Ron. He is the force that keeps her grounded and holds her aloft. She hopes that it is the same for him. She doesn't mind those moments where instead of words he offers her what they call wingdings: nonsequitors, starts and stops, hand gestures and verbiage with no actual shape and purpose. Those are the things she loves more than she can tell him and she doesn't know why it should be so. Maybe it feels a little like a verbal kiss. An embrace she can lose herself in and gives her a chance to catch up with all that is said around it. She sits across from him, one sock-covered foot braced on either side of his own, a compromise she makes with herself when she'd much rather have them in his lap, head tilted affectionately. She doesn't see the dark depths of his gaze but rather watches his mouth as is her wont. She grins when he refreshes himself with his drink. Hers is mostly pulling double duty by warming her fingers as she keeps them wrapped around the cup. She isn't really prepared for his confession though she could, if asked by anyone else, tell them somewhat the same. The walls that may exist between them are so thin as to be made of glass. In ways she cannot explain to anyone who doesn't struggle within the world like she and Ron do. She knows that in many ways he has it worse off when strictly speaking of symptoms, emotionally they often fight similar but separate battles. But if Ron could be seen as a tank, unmistakeable in shape or form when the struggle became words, then Beth is a master spy. Most of the time she can pass for perfectly typical, perfectly normal as long as all she needs to do is look pretty and laugh at the appropriate time. And yet, they seem to understand one another better than any one else, he doesn't lie. There isn't the same exhaustion that could be heard in her brother's repeated pleading and nor the frigidity that comes from Reg's distance. His want for Ron to be the way he was before, an impossible and terribly painful dream. There isn't fear. Beth knows that is the name of one of his demons. He tells her of the way his mum and aunties were before. The double loss of Rose and his diagnosis has left a trench between his family and himself. Reg thrives on the terror a flat affect can have on those uninitiated. Ron's broad shoulders and his stocky frame paired with that less than strictly focused mien, the whispers of immense violence turns into something else. Something she's seen with her own eyes that Reg often weaponizes, without realising that it has a second and more insidious effect; it dehumanises his brother, turns the bright and beautiful soul she knows who loves dogs and has the softest spot for children into a unfeeling thing. Paints Ron with the brush the rest of the world already sees as justifiable. Does more damage than the disease, and feeds the phobia of every one who has to wear that diagnosis as a sort of scarlet letter. It's disgusting, and nothing about Ron's twin makes her want to flay him to the bone for it. What she doesn't understand is the why. Violet is far kinder in many ways than the Admiral. But Beth isn't blind. She sees the way Reg is doted on with love and respect, with a certain kind of admiration. As if the way he treats his wife ~like rubbish best left on the curb for the trash-men to come collect at best, and at worst...she's absolutely certain he's threatened to lay hands on the woman who is almost as small as Beth and a lot less confident~ but it is vastly different than the way she is with her youngest. Ron is coddled, yes. But aimlessly. She doesn't get quite as close. There are layers of worry in her eyes, anxious lines around her mouth and eyes when she tries to hold conversations with him. That arms-length wears on Ron until he starts to fray. She might argue with him on Pat. Big Pat Connolly is a dear man, gentle giant, a stalwart friend and champion of Ron's and she knows without a doubt or a problem with it that the man's the keeper of more secrets than she can imagine. The same could be said about Jayden Morgan, her own best friend. There might be things between them that she and Ron have forgotten, or missed details of, a hundred innumerable moments. She doesn't mind that. Ron needs a brother the same way she needs a sister, and their friends are hanai siblings. His next truth is one that hurts. She can empathise with this sliver of his inner-self. She's been honest with him about her own frailties, has built on its back some of their support of one another but she doesn't and more importantly won't speak of her own experiences. The thin faint scars along her forearms. The reason why sparks and lightning scare her into burying her face in his arm or back or chest. She has lied too, to her doctors, and only half confides in her therapist. She doesn't trust a single one of them to not be on the Admiral's payroll. Waiting to throw her under the bus for the slightest thing. She doesn't have words but nods as he speaks, reaching out and laying her hand on the table between them should he want the contact. But her heart breaks the way he says that softly. In that tone, which isn't really one, though the attendant gestures and glances do provide depth and shades, she sees a side of Ron she isn't used to. The longing for his most loved relative. Being separated unto eternity. When all your world hinged on someone and then...they were no longer there. She would give anything for one more minute with her brother. To hear his voice even if he was nagging, to hear his laugh deep and full-throated. To feel his arms around her while she dug a space for herself in his chest. Worse, she'd actually tried. Something Ron doesn't need to know. "I don' t'ink ya mad," she says finally. Of course she doesn't. "Wheddah part of ya illness or mebbe some consideration from source of all goodness...I'm glad she come an' see ya. Dat you get ya moments wi' her." She won't say she's envious, she doesn't honestly feel that way nor is she sure she could pay the exacting price that Ron does for every single moment he gains to his benefit. It would be more than disengenious for her to say so. But something that hits her hard enough to nearly steal her breath is how he talks of the changes in abstract. How that makes so much sense and provides her with the words she'd never been able to find to express how it feels, deep down. Doors between him and the universe opening. Beth has never heard silence. From time immemorial everything has been loud and she's heard every sound that isn't there, all the ones that are magnified to a point that she cannot make sense of words, of her own thoughts some times until they become too dark and too bitter inside of her head. To the point she doesn't even want to be part of that infinite chorus any longer. She squirrels the words away unil such a time when wintery deprivation make them needed. "Jus' because someone who love ya is gone from wha' mos' people can see an' hear, taste an' touch, don't mean..." Her turn to shrug, knowing he can most likely fill in the space. Her eyes sweep the rims of her lower lids and the hand on the table comes up to the side of her nose. Knuckle brushes the tip once, twice. "Mebbe...mebbe she one of ya beddah angels now, yeah?"

[brooklynislandgirl]

(-.-): How should one wake them up? Do they get out of bed easily?

Body and Soul || Accepting

The soft, slow, and utterly sweet kiss ~devoid of morning breath, which she honestly doesn't mind- it's part of life, and she's gotten worse from the various pups who are just really enormous babies~ tells her that Ron was up and awake far earlier than she is. A flutter of lashes brings the world into squinted focus. The bones of the earth belong to his cheek and jaw. Fresh shaven. Smooth. Faintly damp still and warm. The breath of Boreas is the hint of his aftershave, the air out of his own lungs. She draws her limbs out from under the covers and rises wavelike from the sea bed of her pillow. Her smile still holds onto her dreams even as it attempts to compete with the sun. "Good mornin'," she murmurs. The words are thick in her throat. Noe's grey head lifts at the sound with perked ears. The others might have followed Ron about the house but Noe is particular about sleeping in with Beth. Quietly worries her favourite toy ~a raggedy stuffed bunny from her puppy-hood~ or dozing with her head on her paws or more happily over Beth's feet. She doesn't mind when Beth tosses and turns without Ron's warmth or steadiness to keep her still. Though he doesn't meet her gaze, he expresses that empathy and affection in the way the backs of his fingers brush against her temple, smoothing a few strands back from her face. He brushes away the sleep. Takes with it in that gesture any lingering sadness that might exist by drawing her from the world of her dreams where he suspects she's at her most comfortable, more free, than she ever is in the confines of the waking world. She always carried with her the same hesitation that she does when she has to leave behind the sea or the bath with its scented-salt crystals. 'I f'ort I'd leave ya a cuppa. Y'meds're dahn in th'cupboard wiv th'cinnamon buns from yestaday. Y'want me t'bring 'em up b'fore I go to work?' She catches his other hand and brings it to her mouth where she places a kiss to his palm, whispering a quiet "Mahalo, Kanuha" against his skin. She drags her lips up to the tip of his finger where she places another kiss. Another finger and yet another kiss. Until all five digits have each gotten one. Beneath the smile that grows with something devilish, her teeth flirt with his skin as she isn't very inclined to allow to set his wrist free. "Sure I no can tempt ya f' takin' surprise day off? I mean cuppa's nice an' I could go down an' have breakfas' but…I'd raddah spend da day in ya arms." Requests such as that are so few and far between that it might worry someone who knows her as well as Ron does, but there's no racing pulse and the sentences are complete. She's gazing up at the vicinity of his mouth, occasionally raising her half-lid gaze to his nose before retreating but her expression isn't furtive. Every motion is smooth, there's no tremble, no tears, no fear in her tone. There's warmth but not exaggerated heat. She does truly mean to spend a quiet day in with him, the softest sort of cuddling in. Although it would be a lie to say he doesn't look incredibly beautiful in that gorgeous bespoke suit. "Wha'ya t'ink, love?" ~*~

The best way to wake Beth up is gently. Actual sleep is such a strange phenomenon for her, so rare that she needs every last minute she can get, thanks to her chronic insomnia. Having no night terrors or sleep paralysis either is an even more infrequent treat. That being said, she does sleep better with someone beside her and she's likely to continuously scoot closer to soak up the radiant warmth and solidity. When all the stars align to provide the optimal conditions? She will sleep upwards of twelve hours. A kiss, or coffee, or even a quietly sung tune works a treat. As for getting out of bed, on her own she has a very regimented schedule that's based on the myriad responsibilities she overburdens herself with; 8-16 hour work shifts, charitable events that might be stacked up to three or more in one evening, anything to fill her hours. From childhood until her late teens, early twenties... Beth was instilled with the idea that as soon as she was awake she needed to rise, make her bed, shower and dress, eat breakfast and be ready to leave the house in an as short a time as maybe thirty minutes.

Again, if she has someone willing to indulge her, she might occasionally try to talk them into joining her instead. {{If she's in the depths of a depressive episode, no power in heaven or on earth can move her from the spot she chooses to dwell in, and if she's in the heights of her mania, nothing short of a 'hug jacket' and certain medications or a very clever coaxing will tempt her to slow down much less sleep.}} {{Ron is an incredibly clever man.}}

[brooklynislandgirl]

@ronmanmob {a lush drop of beauty}

While the logic centre of her brain was absorbing cutting edge technology, advancement, promising research that would lead to improved treatments, the dreamier parts of Beth's mind flows through conversations she's witnessed by default at work. Things she doesn't comment over in the moment they happen because it takes her too long to process the conversation of the younger women and the various nonverbal retorts from the older women. Beth feels no shame in broaching subjects with Ron that some people might gasp at, hide their mouth and turn stark pink at ~Frances' face swims by, especially when Beth lets slip even the blandest mention of her relationship with Ron, prompting the little nurse to feel an ocean of sorrow for his sister-in-law. And if she ever thinks of the other woman's love life, it's with sorrow. Being with Reg might be enough to ruin anyone's idea of romance. The physical practicalities must be, at best, terribly boring and at worst, so unsatisfying that it's a miracle they're still married. Ron rescues her from that particular rabbit trail of thought, understanding her in a way she doesn't think she'll ever get used to, ever take for granted. The warmth of his smile sidles over far sooner than he does. It envelopes her just like one of his cardigans on a cold, rainy morning and settles into her bones. They are rare. Perhaps that's what makes them truly special. He prostrates like a fairy tale knight offering her the token of an ear-bud, and with her assistive devices charging in the next room, there's a place for it to slide into. She nods when he explains, half knowing the answer making it easier to digest the words and have them make sense. She, too, has difficulty with words. Over their time together, first as friends and now as friends and lovers both, they've developed a system of communication all their own, exclusive to the entire world; Half each from two islands, east and west meeting in an embrace that includes sign, para-linguistics, touch, glances. Music, not surprising, is a part of it too. The song begins to play and envelopes his borrowed phrase. Heartbeat drums a heavy anchoring bass. That's the first thing that sinks into her as her eyes shut. She stretches in the chair, feline fluid, that copy of the Lancet falling to the floor unheeded. The fingertips of one hand flow across his nearest shoulder to stop at the mid-point, before coiling lightly at the back of his neck. The leg farthest away from him bounces in rhythm, her body swaying in the chair. Before the song is even a minute old, she pours herself out of the chair to kneel with him, pulling him closer. Points of electricity spark here and there as she brushes against him, inviting him to sway-dance with her.

[brooklynislandgirl]

((STEPHEN - Would your character enjoy getting roughed up in a sexual scenario?)) "Y'know I'd nevah 'urt yah, darlin" Ron purred, easing up behind Beth so he could curl his arms around her. The right held her about the waist, and the left, though there for a moment, trekked north; the backs of Ron's fingers stroking lovingly upon her throat as he went on. "Bu' I do wondah--" He caught her eye in their shared reflection in the kitchen window and gave, along with a wolfish smirk, a little wink. "I seen y'face sometimes when we's makin' love...When I get a li'le roughah wiv yah--" The hand at her throat turned its palm inward and took a slow, very much escapable should she wish to grip where it lay. There was no real pressure to it; no threat of anything at all but the gathering of warmth at present. But...

"--Specially rahnd y'neck...Would yah like sumfin' like..."

There came the barest of tightenings; the implication enough to get his message across before he relaxed the hold again.

Whatever You Please || Accepting

"I know," she says almost too quickly, but softly as to not interrupt him as his voice rumbles just at her ear, and the tonal vibration shimmies its way down her spine. She melts against him and the bare skin above her denim shorts, below and around the bandeau she's wearing, breaks into a faint layer of goose bumps. She has enough presence of mind to set down the empty coffee cup she had been rinsing out. She watches the ghost of him in the glass, tall and broad, as he speaks, though through half lidded eyes. Her blood ignites in her veins with many tinders carrying the fire; the scent of his aftershave and the way it blends with his skin, the warmth and tender caress of his fingers as they trail upward, that rare smile. All of it a heady cocktail, though for once she doesn't blush for wanting to wallow in his affections. The further she leans into his shoulder, the higher her chest rises. Gently as he holds her throat, she believes he cannot miss the uptick of her heartbeat. The way it throbs deep but fast over the subtle connotations of what he's describing only to flow behind with an a whisper of illustration. Her own hands reach behind her and make landfall around his hips. Evocative of some more tender moments from when the kitchen sink gives way to the tile of his shower, or the sumptuous bedclothes tangled up around them. She still doesn't flush scarlet as she might have even a few months ago, before things had changed between them. Their friendship too affectionate and full of love to remain completely innocent had caught on the edge of what some might call accident but felt more like homecoming. With some wiggle and a little indulgence on his part perhaps she leans into his softer-than-clouds grasp in order to lean up and nuzzle his jaw with the tip of her nose. Without a better toe hold or both his hands lifting her in the position she's in Beth isn't quite tall enough to crest that strong bone-line with her lips. "Dey say dere's a hint'a danger in…brea'd play. Too hard hold an' you risk cuttin' off blood an' oxygen t' da brain," she says though she knows Ron already knows this, and that it is one of the things he fears. The other thing is in his abhorrance of there being violence between himself and his loved one…regardless of whether the person is as delicate as she is, or as strong as he. "But t' me? Is all about trust. About how havin' your hand there, feelin' my life pulse benea'd ya fingers, ya palm, an' knowin' you can feel wi'out words dat I'm not so good wi'….all da kine you need to know. All da kine I feel for you, dat I want you. Is kind of a case of 'as above, so below'. Same-same wi' when ya teeth graze my skin, or you let dem sink down jus' a little. Brings t' mind how ya face look when we're togeddah and ya eyes close, roll back a lil when my tongue finds dat one spot an' my lips curl around rest of you…an' den your hands flex in my hair." She pulls herself away from him only that she can turn. Hefts herself up onto the ledge of the sink and in place of hands, her legs snare him around his hips and crossing, pulls him closer. A flick of her gaze to nearly reach his own before those now more honey-than-green eyes saunter down to address his mouth. "Or mebbe in slow gentle kisses dat nevah seem to end, one flowin' into da oddah."

[brooklynislandgirl]

"--Is one orgasm enough? Are multiple orgasms necessary?" Ron read that out in as close to the King's as was possible for him - the question printed on a scandalous slip of paper that was part of a scandalous game they'd took up on a bet. The bet was between themselves so it didn't really matter for much - wine if we enjoy the game; favourite snacks if we don't - but here they were, giving it the old college try. The Devil stole into Ron's grin as he eyed Beth, who sat beside and just across from him at the corner of the kitchen table. "Be 'onest" he purred. "So I know bettah f'next time."

Things That Make You Squirm || Accepting

She sits so primly in her own way as Ron reads the question aloud, and there's a little inward drawn gasp of breath that coincides with the flush that spreads from her crown of hair, down the delicate slopes of her face, to disappear into the depths below the scoop neck of her dress. She starts to apologise before she's taken by a fit of stifled giggles. The reaction is both modest and yet child-like but her laughter is the bells of summer rains. "I am an adultiah adult...I can answer dis. Firs' I mean...it's nevah one guarantee dat person wi' internal sexual organs will always have even one, an' dat is no failure on dey partner's part, right? Is just how dem bits work. Some don' evah experience it in dey life. I t'ink dat why sometimes, us built dis way also have a chance t' experience more dan one before we're done. Balances out da fact dat people wi' uhm...outside parts almost always experience one." That feels too clinical, not at all what he was asking. "I'm nevah greedy a person, I t'ink you know. Envious sometimes, I'll admit, but not gluttonous. If one happens, den dat's wonderful, an' you know what dat look' an' feel like. But I also don' wan ya feelin' out of sorts or disappointed if sometimes it no happen. Causes can be up an' down in hormones, in medication, an' simply because while I live t' bein' wrap around you, have you inside me, or whatevah we get up to, sometimes...I jus'... it's not an imperative? I don' need sex, good or oddahwise, to... to feel da way I do about you, yeah?" Her hand rests on the next paper, but she doesn't read it. "What's one t'ing you want me to do wi' or to you dat I nevah have?"

[brooklynislandgirl]

Deeper than Skin || Accepting

It creeps up on them both; in innocence he is with her when she buys a fistful of new sable brushes ~some of which she stroked across his palm so he could feel the full softness~, a basket-full of charcoals, pastels, and oil paints. He signs for the delivery of canvases, frames, bottles of gesso. Art and its creation is one of her favourite hobbies. Much like yoga and surfing and sometimes dancing, it is a solitary pursuit. There are worlds and alien vistas that live and thrive only inside of her head. Only a fraction of which make it to the waking world where others could see or touch them. And of these, nearly none of them feature humans. The faces, body references, and perfectly reproduced anatomy both inside and out are confined at best to sketch pads. She portions off a small part of the living room where the light comes streaming through the windows in the morning, where the dogs can't come in contact with the oils and the gesso. Sets up a little electrical kettle and a station of flavoured coffees, different trees. The first day she even has breakfast; fresh fruit slices and berries in her water jug, refrigerated to near icy perfection. She stretches the canvases, primes them. Sometimes she murmurs to him about the Van Gogh that the family owns ~hangs in her Auntie's study~ or how she prefers Impressionism over Vorticism. Soon though, conversation falls by the wayside as she puts in her air-pods and begins to work in earnest with only music in her ears or lips. The opening salvo. Food is the first casualty. Never really one with a robust appetite, she first picks at the things she collects for herself. Then they get set aside, in favour of the very same hot drinks she'd laid in before she started. Short sweeps of the charcoal outline her dreams, long and slow fine brush strokes bleeding colour into the work. Increasingly erratic movements, multiple projects in various stages of completion when he finally steps in at day four stretching into five, after she's passed on sleep, personal hygiene, barely takes the time to tend to other imperative functions. Deep shadows etch hollows beneath her fervently bright eyes. She puts up a token protest, explaining that she has to finish them. They need life. She squirms, wriggles, writhes within his gentle grasp, one heavy arm beneath the crook of her legs, the other wrapped securely around her shoulders. One thing Beth tends to forget is that most of his dogs have a good three or more stone on her and he wrestles them for fun and exercise. She stands petulant as he takes care to strip her out of the things she wears. As he pulls the pins out of her hair so that it falls down her shoulders. She finally concedes defeat when he sets her into the tub and the hot waer works to soothe the muscles she doesn't realise ache as if tormented by fiends from the pit. And even if she turns her face away, his hands stay gentle as he draws the sponge over every tawny inch of her with the same meticulous patience as she had shown with her paintings. He tries to coax her into conversation with the simple sounding question, punctuated with a little vocalisation on either end of it. She'd ventured into portraits this time. One hand drips soapy water to soak the white dress shirt he's wearing, sleeves rolled up to show his ink and the veins beneath his skin. She strokes his traps carefully. "Dis." Fingers saunter down and stroke between elbow and wrist, then each of his fingers in turn. "Dis." She glances toward him though her gaze rises no higher than the plush tiers of his lips.

"But really, mebbe is da liver. No one really stops to t'ink about alla crazy kine it does or can do, when it function properly. "

A small pause.

"Hyoid bone. Is horse-shoe shape bone you find in da anterior midline of da neck between da chin an' thyroid cartilage. When it rest, it lie between da base of da mandible an' third vertebrae of da c-spine. Is da only bone in da human body not connect to any oddahs near by, so I often wonder if it get lonely. It is anchored by muscles from da anterior, posterior, an' inferior. Dey discover a modern lookin' hyoid bone in a Neandert'al man from da Kebara Cave in Israel, an' dat lead to an argument as to wheddah Neandert'al had a descended larynx, an' was capable of makin' human like speech. Plus, I t'ink it kind of neat. Look like dat movie Loki's horns."

[brooklynislandgirl]

"--Perfect f'you, luv...I fink would be someone 'oo makes y'feel seen 'n 'eard. Someone 'oo don't jus' watch 'n feel th'ebbs 'n flows'a y'tides, bu' learns 'em; learns t'ride 'em wiv yah when they're gentle 'n weather 'em - 'n pr'tect yah from 'em - when they're 'eavy. Someone 'oo appreciates y'culture 'n yer intelligence. Someone 'onest 'n sincere 'n 'oo don't jus' talk like they are them fings, bu' proves t'yah again 'n again, jus' by bein' 'emselves, tha' they are. Someone y'can put yah trust in 'n know it won't get broke."

A Million Reasons || -

Sitting in front of her vanity, Beth quietly removes one set of earrings. She puts them with care into the small jewellery box. She'd been telling Ron about the portions of the evening where they'd been, by virtue of being good hosts, separated. Little things of no great importance before that question. She hadn't known the woman who asked exactly what would make for her a good partner, and Beth's smile had faltered a moment. She'd glanced over her shoulder and sought out her Kanuha. Was it not obvious that they were together? That Beth had no intention of meeting someone ~cousin, sibling, niece or nephew, parent, old friend from university~ new because she could not ever picture herself as being any luckier than she is now. "I…" False start. As if all the things she wants to say pile up like a motor-accident behind her teeth. He's described himself through a lens of emotional action. Ron has never made her feel difficult. If anything he'd been one of the first people ~in fine company with Jay and Tabby~ that didn't treat her like fragile porcelain nor like some alien to be pushed away because she couldn't human like everyone else. And she recognises the reasons behind it, he'd needed and wanted the very same thing after life dealt him a terrible hand to play. Does he know how incredibly unique he is? He's told her about his impoverished childhood, and now he's a respected man of business. He and his brother are familiar names on everyone's tongue. Every investment he's made has been to the benefit to his family and their community. His charitable soul pours out in the way he sees to the health and welfare of the least important people in the social sense, and the deference afforded him is easy to see. If she had any doubt as to his character, all she needed to do is see him surrounded by troubled and 'dangerous' dogs, or the equivalent of distressed youth. Ron Kray is a good man. Better, really, than maybe she deserves. She removes the other set of earrings, putting them with their mates in the same little drawer, then she turns on the little bench seat, gathering her dressing gown and makes her way to the bedside, silk whispering across her skin. She raises her hands but that doesn't make anything else come pouring out of her with any degree of success, and it's just a little breath. She doesn't want Ron to have to ride those tides as he delicately put it. She doesn't want him to have to watch over her, make sure she doesn't do anything crazy or stupid. It's a heavy burden and no one, not even herself, can carry it for long before they burn out or realise just how little reward there is. Not that he would ever say that. Ron would be horrified if she did. "…Dunno wha' I did t' deserve ya, but mahalo f' lettin' me be a part of ya life."

[brooklynislandgirl]

Scent meme: "Manicured grass 'n summah air, night-time cooled."

..Would Smell Just As... || Accepting

Even on the roughest of days, in all the time that Ron has known her, Beth has never given any indication of having even the most temporary palsy. So when her hand takes on a faint tremour, visible only because she's got her coffee cup half way to her lips and he can see the deep beige of cream-splashed wave of this external tide. She also doesn't let her gaze stray near him much less her automatic habit of eyes-nose-lips habitual circuit. Maybe she hadn't made a connection between supper out, and a little spot just beyond the outskirts of London with clear open skies. Maybe she'd subconsciously pushed her thoughts aside until he elaborated the question. She tries so hard to keep the natural terror from her face, from letting it strip her voice down to bare-bones a whisper. "Fresh mown grass is one of my favourite kine," the hesitance carries flags in those words. "Reminds me of green tea, an' dis drink you can get a' Starbucks... Like how it feels undah my bare feet touched wi' dew or still sun-warmed. Second only t' walkin' on sand from home." She takes a dainty sip and sets her cup down. "Summah air here is different. In Honolulu. I really like London, but whole island is so cold to me. O'ahu ranges from twen'y six or seven degree in January an' February, alla way up to mebbe t'irty-one or two in summah months, an' dere is a lot of humidity. So mebbe I'm a hot house flowah. Might need, in ya case, f' bring cardigan...or parka. Mebbe some sled dog." An indulgent hand pets Noe's head, which is resting in her lap. "It...it's night time dat...I...I know you know dat da dark scare me, but mebbe it will all be okay if ya promise stay close an' hold my hand, yeah?Cause I nevah really been star gazin' before except a' one planetarium an' I kinda fell asleep."

[brooklynislandgirl]

Ron's affirmation is rewarded by one of her nose-crinkling smiles and a little fingertip-to-fingertip clap of enthusiasm. Childish? Perhaps. But it is genuine glee and all because he played along with her. Beth requires so very little to find happiness most days. Another thing that brings her joy is watching him procure their tea and snacks. The way his muscles shift beneath his shirt, the growing confidence as he feels like he's wading more familiar emotional waters. One thing Beth has learned is you can't force something if deep down you're not ready for it. They are not on a clock, lives do not depend on whether or not they eat pasta tonight or the next or the next after that. Maybe after three days they'll have to make a hard choice, but that's a three-day from now Ron and Beth problem. Now Ron and Beth just escaped the hook. Beth's attention is partially splintered toward the container holding the tea, the colours and pattern feeding an artistic streak in her soul and she thinks maybe she can get Ron to call in rich this weekend, stay in with her, and maybe paint. And if he can't bring himself not to attend his regular patrons, they could do so on his day off. She makes note of exactly how he prepares the pot so that she can reproduce it faithfully in the morning while she toasts bread and applies avocado, sea salt, and whatever else appeals in the morning. Toast isn't cooking, and doesn't come as a disaster. What might accidentally land in a bowl as opposed to a plate, and may or may not get snatched up by a dog, well…no harm, no foul. She misses the first couple words as she was entirely taken by the faeries of her Ron and plans for the weekend, and only raises her head in time to catch him saying he'd meal prep. "See, dat's really smart. Got all our mise-en-place, which Andy say means every kine in its place, an' dat actually cut out steps an' time f' da recipe." She nods in appreciation for this plan. "So yeah. T' my mind, is like surgery. Ya get all ya sterile instrumentation in place, get scrubbed up, go in ready. Very helpful." There's a delicate pause before she softly suggests, " 'F ja like, I could do most of da cutting, an' you can pack 'em into da prep-bowls. An' because ya so close t' my heart, I even letcha snag a bite now an' again. Promise dat it won' compromise da recipe." She doesn't want him to have to worry about that, on top of choosing to put it off. She follows Ron like heliotrope until he pulls out the chair for her and offers a softer, mostly closed-lip smile, the smoulder in her gaze gentled to something warm. She crosses toward him a few seconds later and at the end of his request, brushes a kiss against his jaw. "Mahalo, Kanuha." She settles lightly, still not taking her gaze off him. When he seats himself, she takes one of the Hobnobs and chews a few minuscule bites along the edges while the tea steeps. "How ya fancy stay in dis whole weekend…an' paint wi' me. You could live whole Bohemian life…. make pasta wi' me. Drink wine, mebbe scandalously out of da bottle…paint…dance…mebbe make love right dere in da parlour…"

"--Always wiv th'chocolate bits" Ron replied, his attention split between his dainty companion and the fixings for tea and biccies he was carefully removing from the cupboard. Her perking up did the trick in assuaging what lingering malice any unwanted, unseen but always heard third parties might've tossed his way at side-stepping cooking - at least for now. In these his scattier moments, when keeping track of newer processes was a trial that truly taxed, it was for the best. Better they postpone for a little minute than Ron try and force himself foreward beyond the bounds of his present capability. There only frustration lay, and with that would come a sour temper, snarling remarks that were unbecoming the affection he felt for his darling and that, bless her heart, she didn't deserve.

Down was bought in the ensuing minute or so a long-handled spoon and a cyclindrical metal tube that was patterened and coloured in a way that evoked the Middle East. Within lived Ron's preferred blend of the moment, kept double-fresh by the silver foil bag it was kept in. Three scoops from this were decanted into the waiting teapot - a glass number, this one, with a filter built into its lid; hardly traditional in its look, but Ron enjoyed watching the leaves dance inside while they brewed and it was with that in mind that he clicked the kettle on before wending his way over to the snack drawer in search of Beth's choice of biccie. They kept their stash well stocked, always. Days like this - where the simple beat out the complex - weren't uncommon enough for them not to. Commentary then-

"--Fink aftah-" After tea and biccies. "I'll…meal prep. Yeah? So i's ready f'when we wanna cook it." He fished a packet of Chocolate Digestives out the drawer and put them on the counter. Those ones had chocolate on one side, but not bits in. He went in again, just in case it was the Hobnobs Beth preferred. As he searched for them, a question escaped.

"--Fink y'd 'elp?"

She'd said before she was a dab hand with cutting and prepping activities of other sorts, had his darling, and while Ron could certainly manage on his own - scatty brain or not - it would be a more restive activity if he had someone to focus on; someone his brain could latch onto comfortably during a process it found otherwise hard work.

Out came a packet of Chocolate Hobnobs. It joined the Digestives on the side and Ron, attentive to the kettle having boiled in the interim, poured water into the glass teapot and pressed its lid down firm. Their mugs and the pot were then ferried to the kitchen table, the biccies following swiftly. Ron pulled Beth's chair out for her then, nodding welcomingly.

"Please" he said, a smile's ghost in his voice.

He was relieved that she'd understood his trouble.