#Nyeela Iddaru

[liamgw2]

Lion's Arch, Halloween, 1325

“Only whores come in here dressed like that, might want to keep that in mind.”

She has the presence of mind not to let her jaw drop open at that, at least.  He is not going to get to walk away, though, and behind him she snaps: “It’s a costume, Gale.  You know it’s a holiday, right?  What are you dressed up as? A lonely drunk?  A chivalrous pirate?”  Is it even possible for these two to get along with how easily he sets her off?  She doesn’t know if it’s worth trying, but for the moment he’s the only person in this bar she knows, and she’s worried that it’s true.  Not exactly a defenseless woman, she’s still uncomfortable with going out and lounging on the streets alone.  The draped keyhole neck of the robe is low, her small breasts sloped beneath it and the visible expanse of her chest nearly flat.

The woman really knows how to rub salt into a wound, that is an undeniable truth.  He doesn’t know if she looks for things to pick at him about, or if it just comes to her naturally.  Maybe he is just being too sensitive?  

He doesn’t want to fight with her tonight.  He was trying to help, and within a minute of running into one another again they’re on the verge of another argument.  “Yes,” he answers, but his back is still to her, he is still walking away.  “I left my whore costume on the ship by accident.”

But really, lonely drunk it is.  Countryless bastard.  Half-blooded orphan.  These are not costumes, they are realities and he is wearing them plainly.  As he reclaims his seat at his empty, shadowy table, he pours another shot to quickly knock back.  For a moment, the flame of a match as he lights another cigarette is the only thing that lights his face.

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9 Zephyr 1328 Nyeela Iddaru c/o Iddaru Holdings Divinity's Reach

Eels,

I have a business proposition.  I'm setting sail in two days.  I will be back around the 23rd.  You should make time for me.  I think you'll like what I have to offer.

Candy

watchtheledges - Nyeela Iddaru

[tiedmyselfinknots]

 (x)

I'll sit here a while I'm waiting lonely like a shadow in the night sky. You sit here a while And wait beside me 'till the next star rises. I came and I saw I saw the end of the world we know You came and you saw You'll disappear before the next star rises.

lyrics from 'Changeling' by Gazelle Twin

[watchtheledges-blog]

Your Character's First...

In response to a prompt on the GW2RPers forum, here is Nyeela’s first totally fucking inappropriate crush.

Explicit sexuality beneath the cut. You have been warned.

*****************

Heated lips brush her jaw, roam to her throat, press suckling kisses there.  Hands far coarser than her own caress her breasts, rough thumbs skimming pert nipples, and she could not have held back the sweet cry escaping her at this even had she wanted to.  It must be a sound he likes, because he gives a deep chuckle and says, There, Eels.  This is better than fighting, isn’t it?

Mm-hmm.  Gods above and below, this is what she’s missing out on by remaining chaste?  This sort of tingling, aching pleasure?  She has a fiancé, yes, but they hate each other.  Being with this man now is a fall from grace.  How many times has she treated him like shit on her shoes?  How many times has he told her to stop looking down her nose at him, and now she does because his tongue trails down the centre of her torso and his blue eyes turn up to her with such amusement.  He pauses.  His head tilts down, and soft lips brush just over her navel, the rough hair of his goatee tickling her stomach and making it twitch.  

You don’t want me to stop, do you?

No.  Her hands find his hair, thread into it.  Her hips lift from the bed, and she swallows back the raspiness of her throat, breathes out a quiet: Please.

Farther he descends then, and her thighs spread with the guidance of his hands, or maybe in partnership with them; she’s hardly certain of the details, only that his fingers part dark curls and his tongue presses between them, where she is pink and wet and waiting.

Oh, she exhales, and her head tilts back.  Her eyes close, her back arches, and beneath his mouth she lets herself be overwhelmed.  He is so certain.  The waves coursing through her mimic the bobbing of his ship.  Usually this is a motion to leave her feeling off-centre and unbalanced, but to be cradled now by his hands, his mattress, and the ocean itself steals her further away into this bliss.  Her blood races.  Her breath comes so very unsteadily, whimpering and shuddering.  She is his.  

It builds, a tension low in her stomach, throbbing with greed and lust. She keeps herself under an almost immaculate control, normally, and many a time she has denied any attraction to this man, dark-haired and bright-eyed and strong-jawed.  It’s hopeless. She is his.  

And it tightens.  She could drown in this, in him, in the feeling of desire and indulgence.  He is a dive into sinfulness and a departure from reason, and although she swallows back the syllables of his name riding on her traitorous tongue, there comes a moment when she cannot.  A moment that stretches for an age, her body painted carnal and lewd across his sheets and upon his tongue.

She is his.

The deep rumble of his voice is a song she cannot ignore.  Look at me, he says.  Look at me, Eels.

Her lashes flutter open.

And she finds herself alone in her old, familiar bed in her old, familiar bedroom, thighs slick and nerves aflame, a flush of heat in her cheeks.

“Fuck.”  Fuck. Fuck. Not him.

[watchtheledges-blog]

Marriage

I am married.

My husband is not cruel.  He is not any more interested in me being his wife than I am, but this arrangement is long-standing and our families are as pleased as can be.  We are barely even friends.  We sleep in the same bed and we eat at the same table, and we have shared wine — a great deal of it, in fact, to lubricate our egos.

It’s my husband’s right, I suppose, but Six help me, I was willing.  It was the wine, it was the desire I’ve had aching and heavy in my stomach for months now, it was curiosity.  I wanted to know what it felt like to be touched and not feel guilt, but I failed at that.  I felt sick with guilt, even as my skin burned beneath my husband’s hands and mouth.  He took me with clumsiness, his cock shoving and prodding and slipping until he guided it in with a hand, my worried eyes turned to his face because I feared that if I looked down, even the courage of alcohol would not be enough.  

I am no longer a virgin, and my husband never thought he would be my first.

Afterwards, he said I was clumsy, shy.  He thought it was because of the alcohol, and how new we are to each other; he said he knows we might not ever love one another, but that we might as well try to have good sex, and he would like us to be comfortable enough to do so.  When I told him I was willing to learn what I didn’t know, he seemed surprised; when I lied and said no one else had so much put his hands beneath my clothing before, he said he needed another drink.  Lyss bless, Ny, you’re not supposed to be a virgin still, no one actually expected that, he said, and when I left our bed, he didn’t follow.

My husband never thought he would be my first, and I never wanted him to be.

I went to see you, and you knew.  You stood guard outside of my new home and your gaze dropped upon me with all the sorrow in the world as I approached, bare beneath my robe, feet in the grass, wine on my tongue and another man’s seed inside me.  Was he kind to you, you asked, and I swear you wanted me to say no, he was cruel, because then you would have a justification to wring his neck.  When tears came to my eyes, when I squeezed them shut and pressed into your side, you held me so close I thought you might bruise me.  But when I said he was kind, your grip eased.  

I never wanted him.

I wanted you.