violencetobasic | (no subject)

(no subject)

She could be proud, at least, of this: not all the blood in her mouth was her own. She was covered in bruises and still snarling insults in four languages when she hit the rather dank ground in the relative darkness.

She looked around her, and knew she was probably going to die horribly in this place, and didn't regret a thing. A girl had to have Standards.

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She watches him as he says it. "I believe you." Pause. "Well, then." She shifts position to extend a hand to shakes his. "That's settled."

Apparently familiar with at least the basic idea, he grasps her forearm, pressing his own to her hand in turn.

"Through victory, my chains are broken."

And, clasping his arm, hearing his words, she believes him. Following his lead, sparring morning after painful, exhausting morning, she believes him.

And when they put a blade in her hands and throw her in the arena alongside a dozen others, when even when she doesn't have to kill, she has to rend flesh and get bloodied yet again, when thoughts of being a grimey, gorey puppet for People Like That start to well up with despair, she catches sight of Dhrakon, and she still believes him, putting the horror and the anger behind the swing.

When it's over, she turns to Dhrakon and, still filthy with bloodspatter, presses an impulsive, chaste kiss to Dhrakon's jaw, leaving red lipmarks as if from cosmetics.

Dhrakon's usual quiet menace and intensity turns into, apparently, all out ferocity in the arena. Only those wching closely, or who know him well can see sparing those he does not have to kill - but never hesitating in the least when the killing blow is necessary - or perhaps the more merciful option.
He wields the twin axes he's given before every fight as if born to them, and likewise, fights with pack tactics, both with the nexu, and with Son'ja, like he was born with the instincts for it.

Covered in blood, roaring in victory - and ever the showman when on the arena floor - he reacts to the gesture by driving one of his axes point first into the gore-spattered arena floor, raises the other axe in victory, and with the now freed arm, pulls her in close for a kiss that's anything but chaste.

And Son'ja finds that in terms of yielding in his arms and adding to the show, she has -- in this particular circumstance, no others need apply -- absolutely no problem at all.

Once they've been led back at gun and shock-spear point, and have a chance to start cleaning up, the first real hint of privacy, Dhrakon grins.

"Well done. Now they'll let us fight together more often."

"Well," she said as she hurriedly tidied herself up, and quickly tried to help him do so, "I'm glad."

Cleaning him up is relatively easy, mostly in that he doesn't wear that much in the first place - and practical as he might have been about the kiss in statement, he's definitely not complaining about her hands on him either.

Getting the gore mostly out of his hair is probably the biggest challenge. And in the cleaning process, her hands aren't reluctant to be there, either, pressing and kneading into his scalp, temples, neck shoulders

There's something of a groan-growl in response, sounding quite content. He stretches out a little, shifting to give her access to keep on with that.

Continue she does. Once she's worked over his head and neck enough, Son'ja soon focues on getting the tension out of muscles on either side of his spine and both arms. After she works thoroughly onhis right hand, she holds it a little toredly and gives it a quick kiss.

The continuing massage draws more of the small, content groans and growls, and his hand is offered up readily for both the massage, and the kiss.

"You serve well. I can see why those in power wanted you - and am glad they weren't worthy of you."

"One has to have standards. I appreciate that you understand, Dhrakon."

"I understand that you don't deserve to be here, but having standards you're willing to die for makes you better than any of those who brought you here."

Son'ja smiles warmly. "Yes. Thank you very much."

"No." He responds. No longer in front of a crowd.No longer doing things for any reaction or cause. He grabs her, and pulls her in to kiss her fiercely.

"Thank you."

And her lips yield all the more readily without an audience. When they part for air. "You're welcome. Literally. You earned me. I like you very much, Dhrakon." She doesn't really expect a response, just invites more kisses.

Words aren't his strong point. At the invitation, he kisses her again, holding her against him, a hand roaming down her side.

And she is quite happily held.

Among Son'ja's personal strong points is memorization. Such as each face involved in putting her here. And everything he's been trying to tell her recently. And she figures it could be put to other things

Her hands have already gotten a start on his skin, but she eventually seems to be trying to map him out more thoroughly.

There's plenty to memorize. Even with very limited instinctual force healing, his heavily muscled frame is a network of scars, maps of old battles in and out of the arena writ large on his flesh for her wandering hands.

He's certainly not objecting, nor breaking the kiss so soon this time.

She'll continue to explore those, and continue to be kissed, soft interested noises getting gradually louder against his lips.

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