⟪ Less than a quarter of an hour for her to consider her actions, but she has made a habit of thinking on her feet in Westeros – after the slow tune of Asshai, where nothing ever seemed to change, leaving Essos had had forced some readjustments on her in the area. So, then, what does she think of? The King, who would be grinding his teeth in anger at this, even though she is well dead by now, even though she has told him all he needs, in theory, to win his war, even though she has hinted that she won't live beyond it to begin with. Even though he is married himself.
R'hllor would approve, though, and this is the guidance she seeks. No better prayer than one of the body, no better place than a holy place such as this one. And she is human enough to think Rafe handsome, even as she half in jest and half in sincerity doubts his... ah... skillset. A knock on her door, and she recalls usually being the one to answer to summons. Can't say she dislikes the shift, and at any rate, she does not keep him waiting.
Her room, simply, is red. She'd taken a blanket and pillows and a futon for the corner as a makeshift bed, cushions by a footstool for an improvisation upon a table and seating, curtains to make the walls less... prison-like. Up at him she tilts her head where he stands, and her voice is as warm as she is as she speaks. ⟫
It seemed unjust to doubt you without a chance at redemption. ⟪ She draws him into the room, her lantern flickers by the bed, and the ruby at her throat pulses red as it's wont to do when she's wanting for something. ⟫ It is custom to assure another of no fatal intentions, among those practicing sorcery. You did not seem intimidated before, but... ⟪ she trails off. It's politeness she is going for, even as she already guides his hand to the silken belt that holds her robe in place around her waist. ⟫
[ Said with a smile more befitting a shark, sharp teeth and hungry. Rafe fully admits he was a bit bullheaded running into things, too caught up in the simple challenge to recognize one of the oldest plays in the book for what it was — not at first, anyway. Now that he's here and all cards are on the table, he can see the game behind it (mostly behind it) and appreciate it and Melisandre for what it is.
The stone still glows at her throat, almost with a heartbeat of its own, and once they're inside with the door shut firmly behind them, he leans down under pretense of a better glimpse. Total coincidence, his nose brushing her cheek on the way or his breath against her neck. The aesthete in him itches to take it off and examine it, comparing it to settings and shapes he knows, but... Well. There's more to do at the moment than play jeweler with not a loupe to his name.
Or he thinks so until there's that disclaimer. His hands still at her hips, thumbs catching on the fabric as Rafe straightens up with a smile that can't quite believe what it's heard. ]
Sorry. Rewind there for a minute. [ Don't ask him to explain rewind right now, Melisandre. There's other pressing matters. ] "No fatal intentions"?
[ Yeah, he's going to need some clarification there. ]
⟪ Knife-sharp is his smile, this is a dance, she thinks, he has danced time and time again, the steps familiar but the game still ripe for the catching, and his breath against her neck has her own catching in her throat. Soon enough, he'll know how the flashing of the ruby is the same as the beating of her heart, but sooner still his hands halt on her hips and he makes space enough for a question. ⟫
Sorcery can kill, and there will be power in what we are about to do. ⟪ Her hands at his cheeks, just enough to keep him looking at her. Some, she has found, don't hold her gaze when they can avoid it. One hand falls to his chest, where she can feel his heart beat, alive and burning. ⟫ It can be harnessed, that power. Some fear it.
⟪ The hand once on his chest falls lower, warm and insistent and practiced against his trousers, where his laces should be. It is, all in all, a good thing she has gathered clothing for some others here in Beacon, or confusion would come for her at the worst possible time. ⟫ Do you?
[ Some may not be able to, but Rafe's eyes are steady and unflinching as the rock of Gibraltar. First rule of any poker table, of any negotiation, of life itself is you never blink first and Melisandre may well be the only person he's met who can match his stare. Or match him in other things as her fingers slide south in a move straight out of his own playbook.
The magic side of it, that's something new and strange but she explains it frankly. Matter-of-fact. A callback to ancient pagan rituals he's read about as a matter of research, homage to carnal divinities and future fertility paid in the most fitting of ways. Christianity had certainly feared it but Rafe's never been particularly religious anyway. And besides, what's the worst that can happen if the magic does turn fatal? They're all of them dead anyway. May as well make the most of it. ]
Take a wild guess.
[ He says it with a chuckle, dark and low, right before catching her mouth in a kiss meant to banish any further doubts. ]
⟪ The King had first kept her around not for any of her skill, nor for her company, but for the simple fact that plenty of his men – and the men of his enemies – would not dare to speak her name out loud, for fear of her Asshai'i ways and her Shadowbinding. He holds her gaze, holds her by the hips, he laughs in the face of death and kisses her, and it's so different from her usual poisons, this.
Doubts she has none, so much is in the way she arches up against him ––
though she does need to push him away, if only to get her hands proper beneath his shirt, and drag for him to take it off. ⟫
Can't say I don't appreciate the fashions but –– ⟪ this is, in a way, more difficult than getting rid of some armour. ⟫
Don't worry, I got a feeling it's a little easier than what you're used to. Once you've had some practice.
[ If not with him, then someone else. Doesn't really matter, didn't even before they all died and ended up here — so why not enjoy what's left to them?
So Rafe peels his t-shirt off in a trice, up and over and tossed aside as much time as it takes to say it, showing off lean muscle and olive skin covered with a dark thatch of hair tapering down to his hips and beyond. He'll even do a favor and ease the way further, one hand undoing the button his jeans and leaving it open for Melisandre to do as she will. She can decide what that may be as his hands skate along the sash of her robes, loosening it to fall to the floor as he murmurs against her mouth in another kiss, ]
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no subject
R'hllor would approve, though, and this is the guidance she seeks. No better prayer than one of the body, no better place than a holy place such as this one. And she is human enough to think Rafe handsome, even as she half in jest and half in sincerity doubts his... ah... skillset. A knock on her door, and she recalls usually being the one to answer to summons. Can't say she dislikes the shift, and at any rate, she does not keep him waiting.
Her room, simply, is red. She'd taken a blanket and pillows and a futon for the corner as a makeshift bed, cushions by a footstool for an improvisation upon a table and seating, curtains to make the walls less... prison-like. Up at him she tilts her head where he stands, and her voice is as warm as she is as she speaks. ⟫
It seemed unjust to doubt you without a chance at redemption. ⟪ She draws him into the room, her lantern flickers by the bed, and the ruby at her throat pulses red as it's wont to do when she's wanting for something. ⟫ It is custom to assure another of no fatal intentions, among those practicing sorcery. You did not seem intimidated before, but... ⟪ she trails off. It's politeness she is going for, even as she already guides his hand to the silken belt that holds her robe in place around her waist. ⟫
no subject
[ Said with a smile more befitting a shark, sharp teeth and hungry. Rafe fully admits he was a bit bullheaded running into things, too caught up in the simple challenge to recognize one of the oldest plays in the book for what it was — not at first, anyway. Now that he's here and all cards are on the table, he can see the game behind it (mostly behind it) and appreciate it and Melisandre for what it is.
The stone still glows at her throat, almost with a heartbeat of its own, and once they're inside with the door shut firmly behind them, he leans down under pretense of a better glimpse. Total coincidence, his nose brushing her cheek on the way or his breath against her neck. The aesthete in him itches to take it off and examine it, comparing it to settings and shapes he knows, but... Well. There's more to do at the moment than play jeweler with not a loupe to his name.
Or he thinks so until there's that disclaimer. His hands still at her hips, thumbs catching on the fabric as Rafe straightens up with a smile that can't quite believe what it's heard. ]
Sorry. Rewind there for a minute. [ Don't ask him to explain rewind right now, Melisandre. There's other pressing matters. ] "No fatal intentions"?
[ Yeah, he's going to need some clarification there. ]
no subject
Sorcery can kill, and there will be power in what we are about to do. ⟪ Her hands at his cheeks, just enough to keep him looking at her. Some, she has found, don't hold her gaze when they can avoid it. One hand falls to his chest, where she can feel his heart beat, alive and burning. ⟫ It can be harnessed, that power. Some fear it.
⟪ The hand once on his chest falls lower, warm and insistent and practiced against his trousers, where his laces should be. It is, all in all, a good thing she has gathered clothing for some others here in Beacon, or confusion would come for her at the worst possible time. ⟫ Do you?
no subject
The magic side of it, that's something new and strange but she explains it frankly. Matter-of-fact. A callback to ancient pagan rituals he's read about as a matter of research, homage to carnal divinities and future fertility paid in the most fitting of ways. Christianity had certainly feared it but Rafe's never been particularly religious anyway. And besides, what's the worst that can happen if the magic does turn fatal? They're all of them dead anyway. May as well make the most of it. ]
Take a wild guess.
[ He says it with a chuckle, dark and low, right before catching her mouth in a kiss meant to banish any further doubts. ]
no subject
Doubts she has none, so much is in the way she arches up against him ––
though she does need to push him away, if only to get her hands proper beneath his shirt, and drag for him to take it off. ⟫
Can't say I don't appreciate the fashions but –– ⟪ this is, in a way, more difficult than getting rid of some armour. ⟫
no subject
[ If not with him, then someone else. Doesn't really matter, didn't even before they all died and ended up here — so why not enjoy what's left to them?
So Rafe peels his t-shirt off in a trice, up and over and tossed aside as much time as it takes to say it, showing off lean muscle and olive skin covered with a dark thatch of hair tapering down to his hips and beyond. He'll even do a favor and ease the way further, one hand undoing the button his jeans and leaving it open for Melisandre to do as she will. She can decide what that may be as his hands skate along the sash of her robes, loosening it to fall to the floor as he murmurs against her mouth in another kiss, ]
Granted yours is a little easier access...