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[motivation]

un: killjoy

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[motivation]

[ 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. ]

[castle]

[ 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. ]

[motivation]

[ 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. ]

[castle]

[ 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. ]

[motivation]

[ 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. ]

[castle]

[ 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.

[motivation]

[ 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.) ]