|Summary:||A thirteen-year-old Rosanna has a particular demand for Brynner.|
|Date:||May 27, 2012 (OOC Date)|
|Related Logs:||Not really.|
|Braeburn House — Kingsgrove|
It's a right squirely thing to do, to sit in the armory polishing armory things. Shields need polishing, swords need sharpening, that kind of thing. And Brynner is ever so proud to be a squire, of course, so it is work the young lad enjoys! He is currently on the floor with a rag, some polish, and a myriad of gear about him, singing lustily about a beautiful maiden who is secretly in love with a young squire. Clearly this song is about him, and a certain Groves lady, and he may be making it up as he goes along if the pauses as he searches for rhyming words is any indication.
Rosanna is a sneaky little thing, to be sure. That is how she slips into the armory without any escort or anyone noticing. Because she is a sneaky little thirteen-year-old lady. It is likely Brynner's singing that has allowed her to hone in on his location, and she makes straight for him. "Brynner," she says in a brisk whisper.
Rosanna is certainly sneaky, for Brynner doesn't notice her until she's right upon him. Probably because he's busy making things SHINY and singing his WONDERFUL song. He's actually just stumbling for another word to rhyme with 'fair' as Rosie whispers at him, and he looks up all wide-eyed with surprise. And then he grins toothily. "My lady!" He most certainly does not whisper, nor does he notice that she's unescorted.
"Come with me," Rosanna tells him. "And be quiet." She does not wait to see if he'll agree. Why would she? She trusts that when she turns to sneak back out of the armory and down the hall, he will follow.
Bryn blinks a couple times, but really: he doesn't need to be asked twice. Up he jumps, with all the enthusiasm of a lovesick puppy, abandoning his rag and his polish and all those armory things to follow his beloved lady. His grin stays intact, but his thick teenage brows knit a little curiously. At least he's quiet, save for the fall of his boots.
Rosanna navigates the hallways in Braeburn House with the quick expertise of intimate familiarity. She ducks through doorways and evades guardsmen and servants to finally slip out one of the doors and rush out to the orchard. KEEP UP, BRYNNER.
Clop, clop, clop. Brynner is trying to be quiet, honestly, it's just that he has these awkwardly large teenaged feet to bother with. But finally, they're free, and he feels like it might be an okay time to wonder of his beautiful lady: "Um, my lady?"
"Shh," Rosanna hisses at him, frowning her disapproval. She finally comes to a particular tree — her tree — and reaches up to climb it and settle amongst its branches. It's a spot she's snuck off to many a time before as a younger girl, although less in recent years.
Brynner shuts his trap quite quickly at that disapproval. He stands at the bottom of the tree for a long moment, either watching Rosie get settled (yes, obviously this is what he is doing) or deciding on the best way to climb; eventually, he decides he's meant to be up there too, and starts up the trunk with a grunt.
Rosanna waits until he's up and settled on the branch next to her. She watches him with a narrowed, imperious gaze, and then suddenly asks, "Do you want to kiss me?"
It's an effort, even for one so squirely and fit as young Brynner, but finally he's perched up in the tree next to Rosanna. He grins, and dusts his hands off on his thighs, and then… is taken aback by her question, drawing his chin backwards and blushing a little. "My lady," he begins, then pauses to reach up and scratch behind his neck. He is clearly torn, wincing and humming a low note. Is this a trap?
Rosanna frowns at this hesitation from him, her brow knitting with displeasure. "Do you want to kiss me?" she repeats firmly.
"More'n anything, my lady," mumbles Brynner obligingly. His neck has gone bright red, and he can't bring himself to look at her while he says it… but once the words are out there, hanging in the air between them, he lifts his eyes meaningfully. Meaningfully, Rosanna.
"Hm." Rosanna considers his blushing face with close examination in a highly judgmental fashion. "I have decided," she tells him, "that I want my first kiss. So you will kiss me."
… "Okay," agrees Brynner obediently, the corners of his mouth twitching as he tries to keep himself from grinning is madmanlike disbelief. He steadies himself with a hand on the branch between them, and commences leaning in, lips puckering almost comically.
Rosanna pulls back sharply from that comical display. "Not like that," she says, wrinkling her nose. "You have to make me want to kiss you. And not look silly." She frowns at him. "Have you ever kissed anyone?"
"Oh." Brynner is a little dismayed, he thought that was his big moment! He runs a hand through his scraggy hair, and shakes his head abashedly. "Um," he says. "I could… I could sing for you first, my lady?" It's not as though he hasn't been practicing, he's really good!
"It should be quiet," Rosanna decides. "You sing very loudly. But a first kiss should be private. I snuck away for Day just for this." NO PRESSURE.
Brynner clears his throat, and sets his eyes firmly upon Rosanna. It's a long, drawn out moment though, before he breaks the silence. There's a lazy quality to his smile as he tells the little lady by his side, "There's no song could do your beauty justice, Rosanna Groves." He lifts his hand from between them, and though he's not quite bold enough to set it upon her, he does commence leaning again, this time with less fishlips.
Rosanna does not let lean in return. "What do you think of my beauty?" she says in a quieter voice, if no less firmly insistent upon his cooperation.
"Your beauty," says Brynner, dropping to a whisper as his face draws ever closer to Rosanna's, "Takes my breath away, my lady." Ever so gently, he brushes at her arm with his palm, and wonders, "Can I kiss you now?"
"May I kiss you now," Rosanna corrects him, but her brown eyes are intent upon his face, not entirely unaffected. "Stop asking. It ruins it. Say something else."
He's a little frustrated now, some low noise rumbling in the back of his throat. But Brynner soldiers on, tilting his head as he makes a study of Rosanna's face. "I wish I could look in your eyes this close forever, Rosanna," he says boldly, tracing his hand up to catch a curl about her shoulder. "When the sun shines in your hair, it's the most beautiful sight in the world. I'm —" The squire catches himself, and avoids informing his lady of his intentions, simply leaning further forward to press his rough, chapped lips to her own.
She makes a little surprised sound against his lips, caught up for once in the attentions of his words. Rosanna is slow to close her eyes, still studying his face as she studies the kiss, examining the sensation of his lips on hers. Then, slow and hesitant for once in her life, she begins to kiss him back.
Brynner can't claim any vast experience with kissing noble girls, but he knows enough at least to know that a lad should take the lead in these matters. Lest Rosanna have any designs on pulling away, he tangles his coarse fingers in her hair to keep her with him as he delivers gentle, restrained kisses to her lips.
Rosanna is not one to be entirely led: though she has been rather demure in the act up until this point, she presses more boldly into the kiss, exploring the novelty and surprisingly wet warmth of it. She makes a small sound against his mouth and curls her fingers firmly onto his shoulder.
Bryn's eyes flicker open worriedly as Rosanna voices her sound, but the press of her fingers into his shoulder spurs him on. He closes his lashes once more, and out dives his tongue, perhaps a little too eager to taste the young lady, whilst his other hand moves bravely to set upon her thigh - on top of her dress, of course.
Rosanna startles a little at the combination of tongue and hand, and she pulls back, grip in her hair or no. "What are you doing?" she demands.
Brynner lets go of her hair quicksmart, and upon noticing the thigh under his hand, retracts that too. "Kissing you?" He returns uncertainly… is that what he was doing?
"You were licking me," Rosanna declares, her fair skin flushed red.
"That's how you kiss," Bryn argues, his brows knitting confusedly.
Rosanna looks supremely doubtful of this fact, and watches him with distinct skepticism. "Then why don't they just call it licking?" She frowns at him. "You never told me if you'd ever kissed a girl before."
"Because there's more to it than just licking," explains Bryn with an air of knowledge about him that quickly dissipates. His cheeks fill as red as Rosanna's, and he quips back defensively, "Smalljon has, and he said." SO THERE.
"Well it feels weird," Rosanna says with countering defensiveness. "You're probably doing it wrong."
"Let me try again," says Brynner, but not in an asking way. He's leaning back in.
Rosanna continues to look skeptical of his — or Smalljon's — expertise, but perhaps she is curious (or warm) enough to give him a second try: she leans in to meet him, a bit more sure than before. She doesn't try licking him.
Brynner doesn't go with the licking thing this time either, considering his lady has already expressed her distaste. He does press his hand back upon the top of her thigh though, and curls the other around the ball of her shoulder, whilst drawing tender kisses from her with a smile.
Something about this second kiss draws more surety from her, the pinpoints of contact at her thigh and shoulder like points of fumbling, teenage heat. Rosanna's lips part from instinctive interest more than anything learned, and next time she pulls back, her color is quiet high and her pulse is hammering in her throat. "Okay," she says, drawing away from contact with him as if needful of the cool air between them. "That's enough."
Brynner is just starting to work up to more licking, his fingers creasing the fabric of her skirts as they curl. More, more! As she pulls away from him, a frustrated whine escapes him, and he sighs heavily before blurting out: "I love you, Rosanna."
For all the heated flush that is beginning to fade and the quickened pulse that gradually slows, Rosanna still manages to level a pitying look on him. "I'm not marrying you, Brynner," she tells him. "Only kissing."
If he was red before, he's redder now. "Sorry," Bryn mumbles to his lap, hair flopping forward. "Only kissing."
"I'm going to marry a lord," Rosanna informs him. "With a castle. In the mountains, by the sea."
"You will," Brynner agrees, sneaking a sidelong look at his lady love. "You deserve the best castle in Westeros." He's only slightly disappointed he can't produce it for you, Rosanna. Only slightly.
"So you shouldn't talk about loving me," Rosanna says with a sense of finality. "You'll only make yourself sadder."
"I won't say it ever again," Brynner vows dutifully, lifting his hand to rest dejectedly over his heart. "But we can practice kissing whenever you like," he tells her. Hopefully.
"Maybe," Rosanna says noncommittally. Then, with more pointed focus, "Don't tell anyone."
Brynner turns his head to better face Rosanna, that she might see how serious he is. "I swear," he says solemnly. "I won't ever tell. I swear it, Rosanna." The boy dithers, searching in her eyes before adding quietly: "I'll ever be your man, Rosanna Groves. Your knight, one day, I swear."
Rosanna studies his face with a frown, not saying anything for a moment. The "Okay" she finally replies with is probably not a worthy response, but it's all she says. "Help me down."
Of course he will! Brynner sets himself to scrambling down the limbs of the tree, stopping every few steps to offer his lady a helping hand, overly attentive. Rosanna will just have to forgive him the idiotic grin he wears. He was her science experiment, after all.
Rosanna is actually familiar enough with trees in general — and this tree in specific — that she doesn't need much in the way of help, but she allows him a few moments of assistance until they're on the ground. "All right," she says. "You go back to polishing Kittridge's things now."
"Aye, m'lady," Bryn responds, offering a quick salute to go with his grin before marching off… in the direction of the armory. He'll take the long way around, rather than duck back through the halls.