[ ah. okay. Bigby should have maybe expected the possibility of Rosalind latching onto him regardless of what he did first. when she does, he grunts, but he doesn't make any effort to shove her away or roll over instead. his shirt feels soft when it's not on his own shoulders, and it's almost natural in the way his arm slides underneath her. her head will now be resting on his bicep, with his fingers barely dragging against hers. ]
I think I've made a point of saying I fucking spoil you, but it doesn't hurt to remind you again.
[ he figures she's going to be asleep before she even realizes it, so he merely stares up at the ceiling with little thought of thinking he can get away with exploiting the shirt that is undoubtedly riding up her thighs. when she speaks again, he looks down at her, even clearing his throat awkwardly at the sudden thank you. ]
Uh... yeah. Don't mention it. I figure this should make us about even.
[ there's the briefest of squeezes out of him as he reassures her, even going as far to extend his fingers to brush some stray, wet hairs out of her face. ]
[Oh, that's . . . nice, actually. The brush of his fingers and the way he squeezes her and the warmth of his body as they settle beneath the sheets, all combining together to make something . . . mm. Not quite intimate, but comfortable. She'd been a little uncertain at the start of all this, but now Rosalind feels relaxed, utterly so. The wind whips outside, cold and harsh, but she feels . . .
Safe, she realizes, and it's a stunning realization. She feels safe, and more importantly, she doesn't feel alone. Here she is and here she'll stay til morning, all because he's fond of her.
It's something she hasn't felt in six months, not since Robert left her side, and she's loath to fall asleep and chase it away. So though her eyes are eager to close, Rosalind yawns and squirms, tipping her head back to push against his fingers.]
Well. If you won't tell me a story, I'll tell you one, hm? About . . . hmm. I suppose I was asking you for a fairy story; you might hear one from my world. Or something from my past, pick one of the two.
[ part of him wants to pretend he's fallen asleep. not because he's a dick (for once) just looking to make her be quiet, but because she should get as much shut-eye as she can. she's traveled miles upon miles on feet and embraced more wilderness than she would have ever wanted in her life only to fall upon his doorstep to get fucked in a shower. on her feet, at that, not even on her damn back or something. perhaps that's surprisingly kind of Bigby to think like that, but he decides not to when she suddenly throws an offer out there. ]
Oh, just so you can hold me to returning the favor at some point? I see what you're trying to do, Ms. Lutece. [ he's not completely serious, and he proves it by reaching down with his hand and giving a light swat at the side of her ass. she did expect he would touch her at some point; maybe not like that. ] I've heard enough fairy tales to last more lifetimes than you know. Let's go with something from your past.
[She says it more laughing than protesting, so he's probably in the clear for that. Though she does reach down to grab his wrist.]
If you're going to be like that, don't do it when I'm exhausted.
[Which is more so she can buy herself time to think. Hmm . . . something from her past? It can't be something ordinary, then.]
Mm . . . I was fifteen when I first entered university. Or-- no, fourteen, but I was fifteen the first time I made a friend. I was . . . very angry as a teenager. Very, very angry. I was resentful of the world and determined to prove myself, and absolutely naive as to how things worked. I thought that if I could simply prove that everyone in the world was stupider than me, they'd all have to bow to that fact sooner or later.
Well. You can well imagine how that turned out. It wasn't nearly as bad as when I was a child, but I experienced my share of, ah, setbacks, as it were.
But I had a roommate in my second year. Victoria Pendergrass. I didn't realize it at the time, but I was very much enamored with her. She was . . . vivacious, I suppose you'd call her. Brilliant and beautiful. And of course, she had a little gang of friends, and so I gained friends through sheer proximity.
One of them rather reminds me of you. Not entirely-- you're far gruffer than Henry Standish ever was-- but you both get a kick out of setting off my temper and riling me up. He used to do it by baiting me with scientific principles.
[She yawns.]
Mm. I almost married him, actually. We, ah, he was my first-- well. He was my first, and I suppose he felt an obligation afterwards, so he proposed. It was flattering, if not both very clearly a pained effort on his part and utterly horrifying for me.
But then there was Robert, and any further propositions became unnecessary. Which really was for the best, because Henry Standish had no idea how to please a woman, stupid boy.
[ when she grabs his wrist, he just reaches around with his free hand and paps her on the ass again. just because he can. he doesn't say anything after, though, listening to her go on with her story. there's a few comments he wants to make, mostly about how she's too smart for her own good, and how shitty of a last name Pendergrass is, but he doesn't. not yet. not until he hears Henry Standish. ]
Please don't compare me to a guy named Henry fucking Standish.
[ then she talks about marriage and he's immediately wincing. ]
Wouldn't that make you... like, fifteen or sixteen when you almost married him.
My mother began presenting me for marriage when I was thirteen, Bigby. That was a bit young, but she hoped to make a match based on my lineage. By sixteen I was attending every party my mother could find during semester breaks. That wasn't so young, not for us.
[ ages thirteen through sixteen for Bigby most likely consisted of him devouring animals and people double his size, so he figures he doesn't have much room to judge. so he doesn't. it's just an interesting thing to consider, Rosalind being a teenage wife. what a bullet she dodged with that one. ]
Guess it's a little funny. You went through your kid years too fast, so life tells you to chill the fuck out and you're stuck in your thirties for... how long was it, again?
[To be fair: she really has no idea how long to count the time she and Robert spent with Booker. On the other hand: it's more than a little misleading to keep being vague about it, but he'll never stop mocking her if she reveals she's the babiest immortal ever.]
Mm. In any case . . . there's worse I could compare you to than Henry. Be grateful.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
I think I've made a point of saying I fucking spoil you, but it doesn't hurt to remind you again.
[ he figures she's going to be asleep before she even realizes it, so he merely stares up at the ceiling with little thought of thinking he can get away with exploiting the shirt that is undoubtedly riding up her thighs. when she speaks again, he looks down at her, even clearing his throat awkwardly at the sudden thank you. ]
Uh... yeah. Don't mention it. I figure this should make us about even.
[ there's the briefest of squeezes out of him as he reassures her, even going as far to extend his fingers to brush some stray, wet hairs out of her face. ]
no subject
Safe, she realizes, and it's a stunning realization. She feels safe, and more importantly, she doesn't feel alone. Here she is and here she'll stay til morning, all because he's fond of her.
It's something she hasn't felt in six months, not since Robert left her side, and she's loath to fall asleep and chase it away. So though her eyes are eager to close, Rosalind yawns and squirms, tipping her head back to push against his fingers.]
Well. If you won't tell me a story, I'll tell you one, hm? About . . . hmm. I suppose I was asking you for a fairy story; you might hear one from my world. Or something from my past, pick one of the two.
no subject
Oh, just so you can hold me to returning the favor at some point? I see what you're trying to do, Ms. Lutece. [ he's not completely serious, and he proves it by reaching down with his hand and giving a light swat at the side of her ass. she did expect he would touch her at some point; maybe not like that. ] I've heard enough fairy tales to last more lifetimes than you know. Let's go with something from your past.
no subject
[She says it more laughing than protesting, so he's probably in the clear for that. Though she does reach down to grab his wrist.]
If you're going to be like that, don't do it when I'm exhausted.
[Which is more so she can buy herself time to think. Hmm . . . something from her past? It can't be something ordinary, then.]
Mm . . . I was fifteen when I first entered university. Or-- no, fourteen, but I was fifteen the first time I made a friend. I was . . . very angry as a teenager. Very, very angry. I was resentful of the world and determined to prove myself, and absolutely naive as to how things worked. I thought that if I could simply prove that everyone in the world was stupider than me, they'd all have to bow to that fact sooner or later.
Well. You can well imagine how that turned out. It wasn't nearly as bad as when I was a child, but I experienced my share of, ah, setbacks, as it were.
But I had a roommate in my second year. Victoria Pendergrass. I didn't realize it at the time, but I was very much enamored with her. She was . . . vivacious, I suppose you'd call her. Brilliant and beautiful. And of course, she had a little gang of friends, and so I gained friends through sheer proximity.
One of them rather reminds me of you. Not entirely-- you're far gruffer than Henry Standish ever was-- but you both get a kick out of setting off my temper and riling me up. He used to do it by baiting me with scientific principles.
[She yawns.]
Mm. I almost married him, actually. We, ah, he was my first-- well. He was my first, and I suppose he felt an obligation afterwards, so he proposed. It was flattering, if not both very clearly a pained effort on his part and utterly horrifying for me.
But then there was Robert, and any further propositions became unnecessary. Which really was for the best, because Henry Standish had no idea how to please a woman, stupid boy.
no subject
Please don't compare me to a guy named Henry fucking Standish.
[ then she talks about marriage and he's immediately wincing. ]
Wouldn't that make you... like, fifteen or sixteen when you almost married him.
no subject
[A beat. She wrinkles her nose over at him.]
My mother began presenting me for marriage when I was thirteen, Bigby. That was a bit young, but she hoped to make a match based on my lineage. By sixteen I was attending every party my mother could find during semester breaks. That wasn't so young, not for us.
no subject
Guess it's a little funny. You went through your kid years too fast, so life tells you to chill the fuck out and you're stuck in your thirties for... how long was it, again?
no subject
[To be fair: she really has no idea how long to count the time she and Robert spent with Booker. On the other hand: it's more than a little misleading to keep being vague about it, but he'll never stop mocking her if she reveals she's the babiest immortal ever.]
Mm. In any case . . . there's worse I could compare you to than Henry. Be grateful.