motivation | ( duplicity

[ he knows she's a survivor, that she'll do whatever it takes to get through the mess this place offers. he imagines she isn't letting herself starve out of stubbornness to the degree that he is, that she'll find some way to get around it without fully giving herself to the system.

all the same, he knows it's a trial. and it bothers him to think of her wherever she is without the natural ease of her lips spreading casually, taking things as they are and molding her to her benefit. ]

where are you

[ some situations are just shit and there's only so long dutch can pretend to have the upper hand before the lie starts tasting bitter even to her. ]

courtyard

[ everyone has their breaking points. he can't say he knows what hers are, but he imagines this is steering things to a much sharper turn. ]

stay there
i'll find you

[ he isn't necessarily the man to see out for comfort. he wouldn't even know if that's what she wants. but in any scenario, their minds move on similar wavelengths, strike parallel cords. better they figure this one out together than apart.

so he'll roam outside, stomping across the grassy field, venturing through the carved pathways as he keeps an eye out to find her. ]

[ this isn't her breaking point, but dutch has been closer to it than she'd like to admit for a while now and this isn't helping. she'd broken, when the lady had gotten into her head. she'd broken then and the effects of it linger still. johnny isn't here and this city is doing its utmost best to wear her down.

she's in the courtyard, like she said, going through some forms, kicking and punching invisible enemies. it calms her somewhat. ]

[ when he finds her, it's with the weight of a sigh on his lips, a gaze that lingers as he considers what might be drifting through her mind. he'll understand what bounces on the surface, the natural instincts that even he has in respond to this place. beyond there, there's little he can fall back on, little that he really knows about her.

stepping in closer, he still keeps a short distance but moves in enough for his voice to reach her. ]

Come at me. [ he says, watching the motions of her arms and legs as they swing. he isn't the best at the comfort thing. but this, this he can offer her if it eases some of that tension. ]

[ there's the briefest moment of —not hesitation, but assessment. of pause. a brief moment, and then dutch moves again, graceful and fluid and violent in the way she attacks. ]

[ his eyes peer closely, observant of the shift of her muscles, the visible tension, prepared for the motion of her steps. and when she rushes forward, practically gliding in her expertise, he makes to defend, blocking with the firm readiness of his forearms, of his calves.

he won't attack her in turn, but he'll be stubborn about letting her get a hit in, making it so she doesn't have to hold back if she wants to channel all of herself into those hits. ]

[ she's fast and strong and after the first few blows that she pulls a little, she finds that she doesn't have to hold back, that he doesn't expect her to —and so she doesn't, striking at him again and again, pouring her anger at their situation into the fight. this, at least, is something that she can control.

it doesn't actually make anything better, but it helps. ]

[ he doesn't expect to resolve any lingering frustrations; whatever tugs at her, tugs at him too, the lack of control that they can't grasp over their circumstances, especially for two people more fueled towards taking command of their own actions.

it's a minor solution for the moments they can spare, and he can feel the shift of her movements as she fuels her hits with more intent, punches and kicks striking at his limbs with more bruising force.

he takes it, swims in it, something fulfilling in taking the hits, even as he aims to counter it with the defense of his own body, not quite but borderline a human punching bag, albeit a more resistant one. ]

[ there's something fulfilling in this, even if it doesn't solve anything —and eventually, dutch's punches come with a little less force, a little slower. it's not because she's exhausted or growing tired. somewhere between one punch and another, she twists until she's pressed against him, catching his arms and twisting them behind his back, holding on. ]

[ he doesn't let up as the punches continue on, even if a few more grunts can be caught in between each, a bit more exertion going through to his movements. but he doesn't catch the moment that she changes her tactics, allowing her to get that twist in that bounds his arms together within her hold, a low vibration of a groan in his throat that notes more satisfaction than pain.

he peers down, straining his neck to catch a glimpse of his caught arms, a light pant in his breath. ] Good form.

[ her lips quirk up briefly at the compliment, but it isn't a particularly happy expression. ] I was trained well.

[ but she doesn't want to talk about khlyen or the royal harem now. she'd much rather focus on the way he groaned, the way his breath comes just a little harder and faster now.

she steps closer, nudging his legs apart without loosening her hold. (he could break it, if he wanted to —but he lets her push him off balance a little, lets her keep him trapped. there's something about it that makes her stomach tighten.) ]

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