[ 22. ] sender pins receiver’s wrists during a sparring match, grinning, "yield." | garrus + freya obviously.
SOMETIMES THE ONLY CURE FOR THE STRESS OF THIS JOB IS TO THROW A FEW PUNCHES. the trouble is always finding a partner to give freya the challenge she needs to feel even a little satisfaction. she would never call herself the most skilled fighter – even on this ship, let alone the galaxy entire. but she knows she has a focus, an intensity when she finds a goal that others tend to find unnerving. which is of course not to mention that most people outside her closest circle seem remarkably hesitant to strike commander shepard. she understands why, from their perspective, and yet it rankles her still.
what's the good of being a so-called war hero if nobody wants to test her mettle about it?
how grateful she is that any concerns she might have about any sudden hesitation on garrus's ( @theomakhist ) part, once she suggested they might blow off steam together in a very different way, had proved unfounded. immediately after she broached the subject, she'd harbored a somewhat irrational worry that it would alter the shape of her in his mind, that she might suddenly become something delicate in his mind. such thoughts in hindsight felt silly. aside from the fact that her rational mind has always known he would never suddenly discount the strength and skill he already knows she has – but to make such assumptions is far more the province of human men. if anything, it seemed only to feed his competitive flame.
this is far more the turian way.
her fingers flex beneath the bandages that wrap her knuckles as they circle one another, two prowling lions preparing to vie for territorial dominance. their shared fervor, the pure viciousness that reflects in their locked gazes, seems to have pressed any remaining spectators further from the edges of the ring, as if experiencing a simultaneous fear of becoming chattel in the space between them. freya probably wouldn't blame them, if she could pull her attention away from her opponent long enough to notice.
she strikes, quickly, a flash of a jab with her right fist ; garrus dodges on feet too light for his stature. freya feels her lip curl in a savage grin, and like a dancer, ducks his returning blow beneath his arm while spinning a lithe quarter turn on the ball of her foot. she cannot best him for strength, but they both know speed is her boon in this match. and garrus is prepared for it. she swings, he slides an agile step forward, she misses.
but her balance doesn't falter in the wake of her failure. she retreats two steps backward, refusing to turn away from him, and then they're face to face again. the energy between them seems to hum, and although she wears evidence of their previous rounds in the scrapes and bruises already blossoming on her skin, the hunger for more consumes her. the line blurs between fight and dance from move to move. how sweet it is to be so known, to match one another step for step as easily as breathing.
they'd delighted in verbal jabs two or three spars ago, but the time for words has since passed. she doesn't need them to hear exactly what the shift of his stance and the electricity in his eyes says to her.
come on, show me what you got, shepard.
she might admit to her rashness later, when the taste of ambitious victory doesn't linger heavy on the back of her tongue, when the need for the intimacy of this shared violence doesn't consume her from the base of her spine. she can barely stand the nauseating brutality of real war, no matter how little she shows it, but this, she craves.
with a yell, she dives toward him, dipping her shoulder to the right at the last minute. her right fist collides shallowly with his cheek as his turian knuckles find purchase in the base of her ribs. an inhale hisses through her teeth ; she catches herself on a stumble, and with her momentum, she allows herself to drop to the floor.
her leg sweeps toward his legs. she feels her heel clip his ankle, holds her breath as he sways out of the corner of her eye, a falter so tiny, so swift, that it is her instinct alone that catches it, her own animal awareness of each of her comrade's movements. a savage pride swells in her chest. she chases the feeling with abandon, rising to her feet, twisting her torso, aiming a round kick to his abdomen with her opposite leg.
it's a mistake. too eager, too reckless, too ravenous.
garrus snatches her ankle from the air in one nimble hand. her balance lurches. before she can fall herself, his other arm pulls around her waist, sweeps her from her feet. the air wheezes from her lungs as her back slams against the mat. she delays only half a second before twisting in his grip, thrusting her arms upward in an effort to pull herself upward. but he has her wrists already, forcing them down on either side of her head as he traps her kicking legs beneath his hip.
freya can hear the shameless delight in his voice when he says it: " yield. "
a beat passes. two. her fierce eyes meet his, and for a moment, it seems far more possible she'll bite before ever admitting defeat. but rationality soon slices through the haze of combat. she knows when she's beaten, at least here, between them, and the longer they linger, the more aware she becomes of their proximity, the press of their bodies, her wrists beneath his fingers, his breath on her jaw. so often these days, she finds herself trying not to think of what they've not yet done, the amorous plans not yet realized in the chaos of everything.
despite herself, she feels a flush creeping up her neck.
" fine, " she answers finally, in a voice far hoarser and more breathless than she expected. her chest heaves, even as her eyes still shine with relentless adrenaline. " I yield. for now. I won't go easy on you every time, vakarian. "
