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She had insisted that he take her right then and there; she had expected him to give way the very moment she told him how deeply she wanted him. What she had not accounted for was the fact that he would deem her injuries “too severe” to place her “health” at risk, which she finds a frustrating deviation from the other men she has been with in the past. Harpers are a rough sort, after all, mutually careless, and she has had many a tumble with one or both parties more-than-seriously injured. They work their way around it. Such is life on the road.
He is not suited for life on the road, she thinks, but she does not mean it in that disgustingly cruel way that so many of their compatriots (so many of his imbecilic family members!) would readily assert. She means it like this: he is suited for life in her arms. Settled, comfortable, sweet-faced and smiling, close enough that she can draw her sword and protect him from anything. He certainly can hold his own, but she does not want him to; he has such a pressing need to prove himself and she worries that it will one day get him killed. She wants to impart upon him that he does not need to wear unyielding bravado for all to see when he carries that rare, authentic courage in his heart. He is not suited for life on the road when the road he walks seems to demand that he change. He is perfect as he is. She wants him to settle against her until he is certain of that.
So she waits. Bides her time, taps her toes, and, somewhat childishly, refuses to touch him, but does not shy away from being touched. Leans into his hands, places them in more daring locations, gives him pointed and irritated expressions on missions that she hopes communicate why won't you just fuck me already, and he blushes and smiles and does not give way.
It is only when the bruises on her temple are yellowing, when she has half-convinced herself that this is his elaborate way of changing his mind about all those too-kind, too-sweet, too-wonderful things he told her in the healers' tent, that he touches her hand over the table in a tavern and says, voice low, "I have booked a room for two."
Jaheira does not care how it looks to the rest of the table. She grabs Khalid by the wrist and is halfway up the stairs with her prize before she realizes that she has absolutely no idea where she is going.
Khalid says, a slight laugh in his voice, “Um. L-left.”
Jaheira turns left and wrenches the first door open. Empty. Good. She shoves Khalid in, slamming the door behind them, pushes him down to the bed, and waits for him to give way to that animalistic passion she knows he feels, but he looks up at her steadily, and smiles.
She says, because it feels like the thing to say, “You don't have to be gentle. I won't break.”
Khalid says, “Come here, my love,” and kisses her.
His touch is like the way the grass feels against her bare skin, the way the breeze feels against her face, the way the flowers make her feel when they bloom: soft, soft, soft. She kisses him back, terrified that she is incapable of kissing him with the same sweetness, that she is only claws and urgency, but he just sighs like a man sated and presses his lips to hers, sliding his tongue into her open mouth.
All the world is stillness. She had been so certain only nature could evoke such a feeling of safety and peace within her.
Khalid kisses her neck and she melts against him, more cuddly cat than violent panther. “My love,” she whispers, her own voice unsteady. She has never in her life used those words before. The force with which she feels them terrifies her, but she has traveled with Khalid long enough that she knows terror is only a necessary hurdle that one must jump into bravery. “My love. My love.”
Khalid's breath catches. For just a moment, he presses his forehead into the crook of her neck, then raises his head again. He settles her against the pillows, pulling back to critically examine her.
Jaheira says, a bit testily, “Haven't you made me wait long enough?”
“H-how long have, have you been w-waiting, then?” Khalid asks, a small smile playing across his face.
“Since the moment I saw you,” Jaheira tersely informs him, “which makes you outrageously late, and which should contextualize my tremendous irritation that, with our feelings on the table, you insisted upon waiting until—”
Khalid says, “S-since the moment—?”
Jaheira decides to kiss him before he thinks too hard about how much she has embarrassed herself.
His hands fumble with her light armor. He is shaking. Those who do not pay Jaheira's rigorous, militaristic attention to Khalid often equate his stammer with unsteady hands; they are incorrect. His hands are always sure. That they shake now sends a tremor through her own body. She has never had this effect on a man before. No one has ever tried to touch her gently. No one has ever thought she needed it.
She did not know she needed it.
His hands cup her bared breasts reverently, tremulously, as if certain they are not allowed to linger. He seems almost unable to meet her eyes. “You are s-so—” he falters, the word sticking in his throat, “b-b-be—b—”
She feels the shame in the way he holds himself. She feels something soft in her that she did not know was there. She presses her forehead to his and waits until the word leaves his lips.
“Beautiful,” he manages, then, “s-so—sorry, it—I—”
Jaheira says, “I love you.”
Khalid's eyes snap up to hers as if he has been hit. She wonders how many times someone has responded to his stumbling tongue with compassion—suspects she knows the answer—cannot let her anger show. As if concerned there may be even a sliver of doubt left, he breathes, “I love you,” and pulls her into a warm, deep kiss.
His own light armors bother Jaheira. She pulls back and undresses him with particular violence, anxious to feel his skin against hers. She does not waste time letting her eyes linger, in large part because they have traveled on the road for months now, in close enough quarters that she has had plenty of opportunities to stare as he removes his shirt. She has catalogued every soft divot and every hard angle of him, and he has never noticed; he is a military man, used to close quarters, too humble to ever consider that a druid dizzy with lust might be staring shamelessly. She has done enough looking to last a lifetime. She wants to touch.
He gives way to her hands immediately. She takes advantage. Hooking a leg around his, she flips him in a movement she perfected in training drills and loves utilizing here—and then, him pinned under her, she hesitates. He isn’t someone she wants to toss around and take her pleasure from.
Khalid sits up on his elbows. Lightly, playfully, he echoes her words: “Y-you don’t have to be…gentle. I-I won’t b-b-break.”
Jaheira feels a flash of irritation, quickly giving way to a flash of something else that threatens to consume her. Eager to distract herself, she straddles his hips and takes him inside her.
Khalid gasps. She wonders if—but she can’t ask, because the thought of being anyone’s first anything terrifies her, so she focuses on what she does like: the warm, full feeling of him within her, the way he reaches up to hold her hands against his chest, the way he is looking at her, now, as though she is some sort of impossible wonder and he is at her mercy. She wants him to look at her like that for the rest of her life. She kisses him to hide her blushing face.
“Jaheira,” he whispers. Almost begging. “Jaheira—please. Please.” He tugs and tugs on her hands, tugs her face down to his. He is looking steadily up at her, unwavering, unafraid. So brave.
Jaheira’s breath hitches with something she will have to learn the name for. Love. Maybe. She braces her hands against him and moves in that time-honored rhythm and, for the first time in her life, does not look away from the man in her bed. This is not some vehicle for a pleasurable night—this is Khalid. Her Khalid. The first person to really matter.
His hands on her are tender and strong. She has never once felt this safe.