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[doneisdone]

[Correspond at your own risk.]

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[limier]

[ There's yet a desk in the corner, her tunic draped over its scarred surface. There's enough heavy debris in here to drag before the door. There are hands on her and Teren's saying something dreadfully dramatic and if she read it in a book she'd laugh and somehow it's working for her now,

But: ]

Do I get to touch you this time?

[ She murmurs, with a slight lift of her eyebrows. Sure. Go ahead and look a gift horse in the mouth. ]

[doneisdone]

No, [Teren says easily, without having to think about it. Her grip tightens, pulling Wren's hair a little more firmly, not enough to cause much pain.]

And this is something you want?

[It's a general question, before anyone proceeds. The words are spoken in a detached and businesslike fashion, but there's a hint of challenge to them, almost a dare. You know you do.]

[limier]

Yes,

[ Her breath catches slightly, and if this isn't —

— If this isn't perfect, it's here. If Teren isn't who she wishes this were with, not really, well. The world doesn't run on wishes, and she still wants this. She could do worse than high cheekbones, and fine-smelling hair, and problems she's not expected to solve. She could do worse. It's not as though there's exactly a line out the door.

If this isn't ideal, it's still a script she knows. Beggars and choosers, ]

If you think you can handle it.

[doneisdone]

[In a modern setting, Teren's expression would communicate a deadpan 'lol'. Instead, she just smirks, confident that it's fine because Wren can't see it, and gives her hair a twist to pull her head down toward the nearest surface.]

Right then, pretty thing. [She holds Wren's head firmly, pressing her to bend forward at the waist, and takes a final swig of the wine before reaching to set it down over on the Templar's other side. Her free hand begins to trail down Wren's back, testing for reactions.]

Is it further violence you require, or calm? [She's here to help.]

[limier]

[ A lifetime of throwing herself bodily into danger has left Wren somewhat less than sensitive; the occasional lump of old scar’s easily felt beneath the thin cloth.

Still, she tenses at the small of her back, seems to be working not to press herself up into the touch. One palm braces against the desk. ]

I just want to feel it. [ She works her jaw around the press of wood. ] All of it.

[ Violence, then. She wouldn’t take her up on it if she hadn't already gotten this much of the day's aggression out, if she weren't quite certain nothing will escalate — that Teren could handle anything that did.

(You never quite lose that awareness. It doesn’t matter that she wants this, that they’ve both agreed to it. There’s always going to be that instinct, however distant: All the different ways to break a hold.) ]

[doneisdone]

[Teren can relate. And even if strength isn't her physical forte, it's unlikely Wren would be able to tell by the sudden crack of Teren's hand on her rear, taking the invitation and expressing it on the first available target.

Her left hand remains knotted in the Templar's hair as she repeats the gesture several times, then stops, trailing her fingertips along the strike zone, beginning to venture near what is likely to be their eventual target.]

[limier]

[ She hisses some Orlesian curse — sharp and distracted —

and then as the rolling stones would say PAINT IT BLACK blah blah blah ]

[doneisdone]

[Teren does the thing and leaves without comment. Hey, the wine's still there!]