(1500D): Courtship, PG/PG-13 (Two Steps Forward)
Apr 3, 2015 8:29:17 GMT 10
Seek, Kypriotha, and 1 more like this
Post by indifferentred on Apr 3, 2015 8:29:17 GMT 10
Series: Two Steps Forward (Yazmín/Vedris)
Title: Courtship
Rating: PG/PG-13
Event: 1500 word dash
Competition: Decathlon
Words: 1500
Summary: Yazmín and Vedris dine together, early on in their relationship; warnings for references to/implied sex.
“Your Grace, good evening! Come in…”
Awkwardly, he hands over the lilies he has brought for her - “Flowers for the hostess,” he murmurs - and hears her quiet ‘thank you.’
Standing there in her entrance hall, he takes full stock of what she is wearing. A loose blouse in some clinging, silky material - dusky pink and calculated to complement her hennaed hair perfectly; wide-legged burgundy breeches, reaching right down to the silvery Yanjingyi evening slippers on her delicate dancer’s feet. On her head, twined into her mass of springy, red-brown curls, is a fringed scarf made of the same material as the blouse. Intricate chains of tiny ruby drops hang from her earlobes - Tharian glass, he wonders? Her hands, covered with mehndi as usual, gesture expressively, guiding him inside; his eyes are drawn to the Chammuri-style silver charm bracelets on her wrists.
He looks up to her eyes, and sees that she has been studying him as closely as he has her. Suddenly, he feels ill-groomed in his pale blue cotton shirt and black velvet breeches, tucked into the tops of his highly polished boots. It’s been a long time since he’s dined alone with a woman, and he has almost forgotten this essential, delicate way of reading eyes and bodies. It is almost worse, being at her house, and not the Citadel. He had wanted to make her comfortable, to let them both relax… but he has never been a good or an easy guest -
“What is it?” he asks, anxious. “You did say we could be informal…”
“Yes. I just… wasn’t expecting blue to suit you so well as it does.”
He flushes, pleased and relieved. “Sandry’s choice.”
She smiles. “I should have guessed.”
When Yazmín had said ‘informal’, she had meant it, he soon realises; they eat cross-legged on the floor of her sitting room, over a low Yanjingyi table, on cushions that Yazmín tells him she picked up in Capchen. The menu, too, is Yanjingyi - fish and vegetables in a thin, rich broth with noodles - lightly spiced and brimming with flavour.
“This is truly very delicious,” he tells her and she ducks her head, pleased.
“I picked up the recipe while I was in Yanjing, dancing for the Emperor.”
“Along with the outfit?” he asks, one eyebrow raised.
She laughs and it sounds like water running fresh from the spring. “Oh, no, Your Grace. This came from Chammur - a man’s garb, cut to fit me. My version of informality. Have you ever visited Yanjing?”
Deftly, he scoops fish and vegetables from his bowl with the chopsticks she has given him. “Oh-ho, once, a very long time ago, when I was still a young man. When people still called me ‘Pirate-chaser.’” More quietly, he adds, “When I didn’t spend my days being fussed over by my niece and my seneschal. Did Sandry suggest the menu, too?”
At least Yazmín has the decency to blush. “She mentioned that the healer had recommended plenty of fresh fish and vegetables. She cares for you, very much.”
He shrugs wanly. “Yes, well… it’s just a reminder, I suppose, that I am becoming an old man.”
Her voice is as soft as her smile when she replies. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. There are those in Capchen and Namorn and Chammur and Yanjing who are still willing to tell tales of the great Duke Vedris of Emelan, the feared pirate-chaser, whose borders no army would ever dare invade. You are more respected than you know. Letting Sandrilene take care of you won’t change that.”
Silently, he toasts her with his wine glass. “Perhaps I ought to take your counsel. Now, tell me about Yanjing, about dancing for the Emperor.”
She pauses, he thinks, for longer than the question warrants, and her answer, when it comes, is not exactly satisfactory. “It was beautiful. Beautiful and dangerous. I danced for the Emperor for a year, and then he offered me a permanent position.”
“Why didn’t you accept?” He can’t help asking.
“I wanted to be free,” she says simply. “I can’t dance if I’m not free.”
He nods, quiet for a moment. He can understand the need to be unfettered all too well. “And if you couldn’t dance?”
“What else is there?” she asks, dryly, and twines noodles around her chopsticks.
He turns the conversation aside - a question for another day, perhaps. “You have a very beautiful house. I wasn’t expecting it to feel so - “
“Comfortable?”
“Lived in,” he corrects gently. “It suits you.” That is true. There is the little shrine in the corner, the deities to which it is dedicated mostly unfamiliar to him; the myriad of artefacts that litter the room, physical reminders of the full, vibrant life she has lived; the cinnamon spice scent of her perfume that fills the room. Everything here is elegant and mismatched and beautiful… and completely, perfectly Yazmín.
“I bought it nearly fifteen years ago,” she tells him and he is surprised. “Of course, I wasn’t in Summersea often then… but it was comforting, to have somewhere I could really call home.”
“You don’t have family?” he asks quietly and she shakes her head.
“None that I want to see, or who’d want to see me. No, this was something that was mine, that no one else could take from me.” There is a fierce kind of sadness there, that he isn’t entirely sure he should enquire about.
“And you’ve been happy here?” he checks and is rewarded by a widening of her smile.
“Yes. Fortunately, my housekeeper and her man are permanent, very conscientious tenants. He’s responsible for most of the fruit and vegetables you’ve eaten tonight. I’d halve their rent for that alone, but they’d never permit it.”
“Ah… and where are they tonight?” He thinks he is being clever, but he realises from the glint in her eye as she answers that she has seen straight through him.
“Visiting their daughter, in Goldenridge. They’re not due back until the end of the week.” She toys almost coyly with the remains of her food. “I told you we would have privacy. No need to expose either of us to gossip.”
“I didn’t think there was anything to gossip about,” he retorts lightly. “Just two people with common interests sharing dinner.”
“Your Grace is somewhat naive, I think,” she sighs laughingly.
His eyebrows shoot up almost comically. “I don’t recall the last time someone called me that.”
She bites her lower lip. “Well, if anyone saw you coming here, at night, dressed as you are… and my reputation as it is…”
“Your reputation as a great dancer?” he asks mildly, although he’s well aware of the reputation to which she is referring. Well, plenty of women have had lovers before, not to mention men. They are both adults, and capable of understanding the situation without interference from anyone else.
“My reputation as the lover of many well-known men, Your Grace,” she corrects firmly.
“And that… irks you?” He sets aside his chopsticks neatly next to his now empty bowl as he waits for her reply.
She shakes her head. “No. I’ve nothing of which to be ashamed. I… did think that it would perhaps bother you.”
He realises two things simultaneously: firstly, that this is some sort of test; and secondly, that there must have been some man in her past who was bothered by it. “I think we can both weather the scandal,” he reassures her finally. “Besides, I do have Sandry as my protector.”
The conversation moves onto his niece and her foster-siblings and their outrageous exploits, and the weight in the air lifts, and they are just Yazmín and Vedris again.
At long last, he sets aside his wine glass and rises. “I should leave you to retire,” he smiles quietly.
“Of course.” She uncurls herself from her cushion and offers her hand. He turns it and places the gentlest of kisses on her fingertips.
“That isn’t how friends say ‘good night’, Vedris,” she chides softly, and steps forwards, rising onto her tiptoes in a fluid dancer’s move to kiss his cheek. He tastes of wine and spices and clean soap and heaven.
She draws away from him, wanting to see the kiss’s effect, but his hand has already settled securely around her waist and then his clever mouth covers hers.
Only when breathing becomes more necessity than option do they part.
“The house is empty,” Yazmín reminds him breathlessly. “My neighbours are discreet…”
“Are you trying to seduce me, Mistress Hebet?” he asks, his voice grave.
“Would you be terribly shocked if I said that the whole point of tonight was to seduce you?” she asks twinklingly.
He thinks for a moment and then shakes his head. “Not particularly.” He kisses her again, savouring her warm lips. “Not enough to want you to stop, anyway,” he adds.
The sound of their footsteps on the stairs is muffled by Yazmín’s glorious laughter.
Title: Courtship
Rating: PG/PG-13
Event: 1500 word dash
Competition: Decathlon
Words: 1500
Summary: Yazmín and Vedris dine together, early on in their relationship; warnings for references to/implied sex.
“Your Grace, good evening! Come in…”
Awkwardly, he hands over the lilies he has brought for her - “Flowers for the hostess,” he murmurs - and hears her quiet ‘thank you.’
Standing there in her entrance hall, he takes full stock of what she is wearing. A loose blouse in some clinging, silky material - dusky pink and calculated to complement her hennaed hair perfectly; wide-legged burgundy breeches, reaching right down to the silvery Yanjingyi evening slippers on her delicate dancer’s feet. On her head, twined into her mass of springy, red-brown curls, is a fringed scarf made of the same material as the blouse. Intricate chains of tiny ruby drops hang from her earlobes - Tharian glass, he wonders? Her hands, covered with mehndi as usual, gesture expressively, guiding him inside; his eyes are drawn to the Chammuri-style silver charm bracelets on her wrists.
He looks up to her eyes, and sees that she has been studying him as closely as he has her. Suddenly, he feels ill-groomed in his pale blue cotton shirt and black velvet breeches, tucked into the tops of his highly polished boots. It’s been a long time since he’s dined alone with a woman, and he has almost forgotten this essential, delicate way of reading eyes and bodies. It is almost worse, being at her house, and not the Citadel. He had wanted to make her comfortable, to let them both relax… but he has never been a good or an easy guest -
“What is it?” he asks, anxious. “You did say we could be informal…”
“Yes. I just… wasn’t expecting blue to suit you so well as it does.”
He flushes, pleased and relieved. “Sandry’s choice.”
She smiles. “I should have guessed.”
When Yazmín had said ‘informal’, she had meant it, he soon realises; they eat cross-legged on the floor of her sitting room, over a low Yanjingyi table, on cushions that Yazmín tells him she picked up in Capchen. The menu, too, is Yanjingyi - fish and vegetables in a thin, rich broth with noodles - lightly spiced and brimming with flavour.
“This is truly very delicious,” he tells her and she ducks her head, pleased.
“I picked up the recipe while I was in Yanjing, dancing for the Emperor.”
“Along with the outfit?” he asks, one eyebrow raised.
She laughs and it sounds like water running fresh from the spring. “Oh, no, Your Grace. This came from Chammur - a man’s garb, cut to fit me. My version of informality. Have you ever visited Yanjing?”
Deftly, he scoops fish and vegetables from his bowl with the chopsticks she has given him. “Oh-ho, once, a very long time ago, when I was still a young man. When people still called me ‘Pirate-chaser.’” More quietly, he adds, “When I didn’t spend my days being fussed over by my niece and my seneschal. Did Sandry suggest the menu, too?”
At least Yazmín has the decency to blush. “She mentioned that the healer had recommended plenty of fresh fish and vegetables. She cares for you, very much.”
He shrugs wanly. “Yes, well… it’s just a reminder, I suppose, that I am becoming an old man.”
Her voice is as soft as her smile when she replies. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. There are those in Capchen and Namorn and Chammur and Yanjing who are still willing to tell tales of the great Duke Vedris of Emelan, the feared pirate-chaser, whose borders no army would ever dare invade. You are more respected than you know. Letting Sandrilene take care of you won’t change that.”
Silently, he toasts her with his wine glass. “Perhaps I ought to take your counsel. Now, tell me about Yanjing, about dancing for the Emperor.”
She pauses, he thinks, for longer than the question warrants, and her answer, when it comes, is not exactly satisfactory. “It was beautiful. Beautiful and dangerous. I danced for the Emperor for a year, and then he offered me a permanent position.”
“Why didn’t you accept?” He can’t help asking.
“I wanted to be free,” she says simply. “I can’t dance if I’m not free.”
He nods, quiet for a moment. He can understand the need to be unfettered all too well. “And if you couldn’t dance?”
“What else is there?” she asks, dryly, and twines noodles around her chopsticks.
He turns the conversation aside - a question for another day, perhaps. “You have a very beautiful house. I wasn’t expecting it to feel so - “
“Comfortable?”
“Lived in,” he corrects gently. “It suits you.” That is true. There is the little shrine in the corner, the deities to which it is dedicated mostly unfamiliar to him; the myriad of artefacts that litter the room, physical reminders of the full, vibrant life she has lived; the cinnamon spice scent of her perfume that fills the room. Everything here is elegant and mismatched and beautiful… and completely, perfectly Yazmín.
“I bought it nearly fifteen years ago,” she tells him and he is surprised. “Of course, I wasn’t in Summersea often then… but it was comforting, to have somewhere I could really call home.”
“You don’t have family?” he asks quietly and she shakes her head.
“None that I want to see, or who’d want to see me. No, this was something that was mine, that no one else could take from me.” There is a fierce kind of sadness there, that he isn’t entirely sure he should enquire about.
“And you’ve been happy here?” he checks and is rewarded by a widening of her smile.
“Yes. Fortunately, my housekeeper and her man are permanent, very conscientious tenants. He’s responsible for most of the fruit and vegetables you’ve eaten tonight. I’d halve their rent for that alone, but they’d never permit it.”
“Ah… and where are they tonight?” He thinks he is being clever, but he realises from the glint in her eye as she answers that she has seen straight through him.
“Visiting their daughter, in Goldenridge. They’re not due back until the end of the week.” She toys almost coyly with the remains of her food. “I told you we would have privacy. No need to expose either of us to gossip.”
“I didn’t think there was anything to gossip about,” he retorts lightly. “Just two people with common interests sharing dinner.”
“Your Grace is somewhat naive, I think,” she sighs laughingly.
His eyebrows shoot up almost comically. “I don’t recall the last time someone called me that.”
She bites her lower lip. “Well, if anyone saw you coming here, at night, dressed as you are… and my reputation as it is…”
“Your reputation as a great dancer?” he asks mildly, although he’s well aware of the reputation to which she is referring. Well, plenty of women have had lovers before, not to mention men. They are both adults, and capable of understanding the situation without interference from anyone else.
“My reputation as the lover of many well-known men, Your Grace,” she corrects firmly.
“And that… irks you?” He sets aside his chopsticks neatly next to his now empty bowl as he waits for her reply.
She shakes her head. “No. I’ve nothing of which to be ashamed. I… did think that it would perhaps bother you.”
He realises two things simultaneously: firstly, that this is some sort of test; and secondly, that there must have been some man in her past who was bothered by it. “I think we can both weather the scandal,” he reassures her finally. “Besides, I do have Sandry as my protector.”
The conversation moves onto his niece and her foster-siblings and their outrageous exploits, and the weight in the air lifts, and they are just Yazmín and Vedris again.
At long last, he sets aside his wine glass and rises. “I should leave you to retire,” he smiles quietly.
“Of course.” She uncurls herself from her cushion and offers her hand. He turns it and places the gentlest of kisses on her fingertips.
“That isn’t how friends say ‘good night’, Vedris,” she chides softly, and steps forwards, rising onto her tiptoes in a fluid dancer’s move to kiss his cheek. He tastes of wine and spices and clean soap and heaven.
She draws away from him, wanting to see the kiss’s effect, but his hand has already settled securely around her waist and then his clever mouth covers hers.
Only when breathing becomes more necessity than option do they part.
“The house is empty,” Yazmín reminds him breathlessly. “My neighbours are discreet…”
“Are you trying to seduce me, Mistress Hebet?” he asks, his voice grave.
“Would you be terribly shocked if I said that the whole point of tonight was to seduce you?” she asks twinklingly.
He thinks for a moment and then shakes his head. “Not particularly.” He kisses her again, savouring her warm lips. “Not enough to want you to stop, anyway,” he adds.
The sound of their footsteps on the stairs is muffled by Yazmín’s glorious laughter.