Private An Ash Strewn Hope [M]

[Osytha]

Cackling when Hector sends the sky all a-tumble, and Osytha finds herself sinking into his arms. Nuzzling into his neck as he carries her off. Plants soft, open-mouthed kisses from collar to jaw. Wants his skin. His sweat. Even his prickly sandpaper stubble. She’s had his lips and the slick, invading push of his mouth. Wants to know how the rest of him tastes. Starting with this.

The sharp rustle-crunch of manicured grass underfoot gives way to taller, rasping whispers. Just before they both disappear into the unkempt screen, Osytha looks behind them.

“Stay.”

She leaves no room for Guffy to argue. One last glimpse of that surprised, uncomprehending-yet-obedient little face — before the stalks swallow him up.

“Sitting down.”​

They make a bed of it here. Lay flat the swaying blades and feathery cluster of feverfew, to fill their cosy bower with an aroma of fresh-crushed greens and bitter citrus. Hector rises over her. Sun’s last molten glow alighting on his crown, while tall grass dances its soft shadows across his eyes. Playful under strong, dark brow. Sharp lines of his cheekbones, mismatched ears. Fine lips for kissing. She cradles a hand to the side of his face, in wonder. Has he always been this beautiful?

Osytha sees it for just long enough to stall her breath, and then he’s tilting her head up to meet in another kiss. She braces against the earth behind her — let him press into her all he wants. Take what he wants. Plump lips part themselves for him, offering it up. Until he’s had his fill of that part of her, and their breaths are washing against one another.

“On your back.”​

Slowly, inevitably, a broad palm pushes Osytha down until it has her flat against the grass.

All she can do is stare with wide, desperate eyes up at Hector. But he’s teasing the moment out. Letting her suffer the distance between them. And the way he’s looking down at her, is almost…

Her fingers curl helplessly into the grass beside her head. He’s pressing right in the little delve between her breasts — he must feel how hard she’s drawing breath, the crazed thumping right under his fingers. For him. So much her mind is spinning, and it feels like she’s shrinking under the weight of those hard eyes. Into nothing.

Hector doesn’t need an arm to pin her down. He has only to look at her like this, and Osytha’s a stranger in her own body.

Please. She can’t control it. Feels her hips buck down, her lonely thighs rub desperately together. Hears herself begging with a pathetic, wordless moan. Please! She’s on the verge of debasing herself even worse when Hector relents; feels his other hand slipping the shoes off her feet, and his iron yields into a mercifully dark smile.

“Give me your hosen.”​

Osytha can’t take her eyes off of his. But her hands get the command well enough, and move down without delay. They ride the bottom of her long shirt up, past the voluminous folds of well-gathered braies. Continue on just a slip further than that, to show the base of a pale belly. Her finger close in on each hose’s anchor points to a cord about her waist. A pull here, a tug there, and the long wool stockings are freed.

Not her, though — Osytha’s still pinned under a long, burly arm. She curls her legs up close to her chest, and begins sliding the dual-coloured hosen off.

“Ah, um.” Her voice has gone all breathy, as if she’s just run a marathon. It suddenly becomes very hard to look Hector in the face, so she turns hers aside. “Like et. When tha… bitest me.” Osytha can still feel the skin sizzling where he’d put his teeth into her neck. “Tha canst, um, canst go h-harder. If tha want’st.”

More thick linen braies spill out in a bloom of wrinkles and gussets. Then, a pair of knees held side-by-side, just a little blush of pink to them. After that come the exaggerated curves of her smooth, white calves, and lastly, some dainty-ish feet. Bared but for the toes, by which Osytha has left the hosen dangling as she proffers them up to Hector. Since he asked for them so nicely, and all.

 

[Hector]

Thumb's pad works over the hard length of her collar bone. Calloused fingers round and grab up the heft of muscle there at the base of her neck as she squirms and works free the cords about her waist. Each little sound. Each breath working through her. Tender and raw with want.


Is it her heart, or his? Beating against his bones. At the end of his fingers.

He works over that long neck of hers. Sees that red smile cut there, where blade's point had held her life against its bite. How the dark beauty of her hair spills about it. Sticks, stubborn against that red reminder. He pushes the strands back across the arch of an ear he wants to nibble on. But he stays still. Brushes the backs of knuckles across cheek and jaw.

That the rustle and hiss of fabrics come loose tickled his ears was plain on the look on his face. Too pleased with it all. Felt the whole of him winding tighter and fuller with the breathy break of her voice. His eyes move to find hers, as his pinning hand lingers about its grip. Thumb against her jaw, fingers pressed up to her pulse. Slip over her lips. Lets give as she shifts.

"Ah, um... Like et. When tha.. bitest me."
​

"Is that so?" he coos. Sees how she's already turning. Giving up that part of her. Bites his own thumb, where her lips had bin.

"Tha canst, um, canst go h-harder. If tha want'st."
​

"Harder?" he tries the breathy sound with his throat. The roundness of the word on his tongue. The warm curl of it past his lips "And if I wanted to go softer?"

His hands work their way down. Smoothing across lines. Shifting from round of shoulder, to the plump bounce of breast, hard ripple of rib, the dip of her hip. He grabs her legs in his hands. Glides down across all their trained muscle. The bristle of her hairs, and their lively scratch. All the scars there across her, long healed and silvered over. Until he arrives at the hosen.

Bunched by hook of her feet. He grins. And takes those well worn wool stockings off her and slaps them over his shoulder like a promise. Grabs her feet. Works them hard. Till the nerves go pop. Grips up her calves, and the crook of her knee.

"What if I wanted to spoil you instead?" he played out as he rest down her limbs. Went on exploring her cords and coils with kneading motion. Up and up those thighs, diligent. Passed his hands over linen bunches. Pressed there through them. Thumbs hooked inward. Not being shy about digging for more as they worked. Hard into the soft give of muscle. Easy over the hard plane of bones. Smooth across the warmth of her cunt. "If I wanted to make you forget for a moment, all the iron about us?" His eyes are full on her. Watching how she moves to his touch. Presses his fingers there to the swell of lips neath bunched up linens. Pads press down firm, and trail back up. "What would you say to that?"

 

[Osytha]

More giggling with her legs in the air; a strange laugh of pain, from his fingers kneading every hardship out her feet until they’re nothing but jelly. Those hungry hands riding up her calves, next, and she can feel it — the fate of their course.

Realisation pulses down her belly, stabbing so sharp and tight that it steals another whimper out of her.

“What if I wanted to spoil you instead?” Hector’s no sooner conquered her below the knees than his thumbs are digging their trenches into her thighs. No fair. Another aching, slavering pang spears down from Osytha’s heart to the cove below her navel, spreading herself a little further apart. It’s not fair — she wanted to give to him as well, but it’s chamomile tea all over again. His strong, umber hands pushing their gift into her, steam coiling through her head, gone all pink and fogged-up. Turning her into this selfish, pathetic little thing.

He slides higher. Hector’s fingers are foreign to her there, big and tough and blocky. So unmistakably him that she feels swarming into the hollow little arch atop the inside of her thighs. “If I wanted to make you forget for a moment, all the iron about us?” Osytha’s hips push down to meet him, her beleaguered patience now wholly fled. Legs parted wide and curling up his sides, touching back in desperation; calves rubbing against his own bunched thighs, to the hard ridge of hips, over forge-rippled muscles ascending his ribs.

“What would you say to that?”​

Seems there’s not much Osytha can say. Those aren’t words coming out her mouth, just, every heaving breath given voice. A cadence of moans and gasps as she matches her grinding hips to the rhythm of Hector’s fingers rubbing over her keystone through the linen. Her head twists sideways hard into the grass, mess of near-black locks with its frayed white stripe tangling amidst the blades, or else draped across her boiling cheeks and gaping lips. The dark strokes of her brows are furrowed upward, twitching in a semaphore of pleasure. And there beneath them, a sharp blue eye rolls hard to look up at Hector. Some glimmer of thought yet holding out.

Lamenting how that gorgeous, heartbreaking face of Hector’s is all too distant. Still watching from afar as she makes a mess of herself down here. More. Osytha wants to cup the hard angle of his jaw in her hands, to taste the ample mound of his lips over and over again. More. She wants to feel them on… other parts of her. Soft-kissing, blood-sucking, tongue-lashing, teeth-nibbling, on every inch of her flesh. While his burly hands keep invading, and she smothers beneath the crush of his body.

“What would you say to that?” Osytha’s hands drift down. Determined. Whisper first across the bent stalks at her sides, then a rasp of different timbre; rough cord on thick linen.

“Ah w-w—!” Word turns to wail as her body spasms in on itself. A passing flicker, before her fingers pick up their fumbling and she tries again; “Ah… Ah want et,” she answers at last.

More, says her pleading eye. More, demand her eager hands as they rip away her waist-cord. The ridiculous gathering of her braies yield downward, laying bare her navel and the receding slope of her belly. Linen tide retreats further, and then Hector can see the full roundness of her hips. The crescents in her shape, channelling inward and downward to the crux of her. Running to the dark little tuft waiting for him there between her legs.

Osytha’s hands fold over his. They guide him beneath the fallen lip of her braies until he’s touching her, truly touching her at last, to the crease of all her slick, slippery desperation.

“Ah want thee.” Her voice is a quaking, needy little thing. Her wanton fingers climb up the flexing cables of his forearm, feeling the way he’s toying with her through their bunch and pull. “Hector, Ah w—” another cry, another helpless tremble against him, “—want thee… p-please…”

 

[Hector]

"Ah...w-w—! Ah... Ah want et," ​

"You want it?"

Braise slipped down in bunches. Skin bared against the whispering grass about them. All the moving contours of her draw his eyes down. Breath pumping. Heart beating. Body twisting. So small each movement, seems the world to his eyes. Down to that dark field of raven's down that crown her nethers.

She doesn't wait. She takes his hand and shows exactly what she wants. Bringing the flat tips of his digits there to the wet heat of her.

"Ah want thee... Hector ah w-want thee... p-please..." ​

And he gives to her. Long and slow. Right down the give of her folds. Fingers all press and glide between the plump and scratch, and the wet feel of her most delicate flesh. How her cunt cups about the swells of his finger pads. Easy. He presses in. A knuckle. Lingers in the hook and trail of it. On the hug and pucker of all of her there around so small a part of him.

"Like this?" he asks. Still on high. Arm pressed there to the core of her, palm there for her to ride, while his knee rides up her thigh.

Well. Wasn't this a sight?

Brave. Capable. Beautiful Syr Osytha of Hræfn Leah. Osytha with the big blue eyes, and the streak of lightning forking across the dark storm of her hair. Gentle. Furious. Laughing. Giggling. Pranking. Studying. Charging. Osytha. Blushing and panting and squirming there at the tips of his fingers. Skin like the moons made to blush there all the more luminous against the gold of his own umber.

Strong legs wrapped about him and hugging him in as she pant, and moaned, and whimpered with the steady rock of his weight behind the pump of his arm and the stroke of his digits, sinking in the steamy kiss of fattening lips.

Soft. Giving. Warm. Wet. Bunched there against him. He rocks the full swell of his want against her unfolding invitation. Hard against hard. Give against give. Bulging and filling. Rasping up and up right there beside the press of his fingers. Braise barely holding on. He can't help but hum. The sound works through his bones. All the way down his knees and into the earth.

 

[Osytha]

“Like this?” Like he can’t tell. Like he’s not already got her writhing and wauling in the palm of his hand.

“Uh-hhuh—!”

More than just the sensation, it’s the knowing — those are Hector’s fingers inside her. Pressing, trailing, teasing, exploring; wanting. Wanting her. Now they have her, those hands of his, and she’s right there beside the forge-burns, work-callouses, whittle-nicks, and ink-stains. Soaking herself into the pads of his fingers. He slips into Osytha, one moment effortless from her torrents, the next, hard-pressed by the squeeze around his knuckles.

Ohfuckohfuckohfu-uck

Closer; Hector’s legs slide further up the inside of hers, prying her even wider apart, and then he’s that much closer. Tall grass dancing its shadow puppets over his face, though it can’t stop that low sun lighting up the deep honey of his eyes. Closer, but more than just closer, now. How heavy the rapt focus of his hungry stare. How rich the sound thrumming out his chest, rattling all of Osytha’s porcelain right off her shelves.

How sweet the rub of his hot, rigid cock beside her sopping cunt.

Close enough now for her own unsteady hands to wend their way up. She slides under Hector’s shirt to rove along his bare flesh, mapping the contours of a physique she’ll never achieve for herself; broader, tougher, shifting with great ropes of muscle under the tips of her fingers. Osytha runs up rippling abdominals to the outward flare of his ribs, combs through the black coils of hair over his breast, and spans the breadth of his vibrating chest. Gods, she feels so small, under him like this. Hector’s low-pitched buzz rattling down her arms, while every raw stroke and curl of his fingers below Osytha’s bush forces a soft cry out of her.

Panting and breathless, her fingers trailing back down the furrows of his stomach. “Where—” roaming further; one hand loosening Hector’s own braies, her other, slipping down the front of his undergarment, “—dost tha w-want,” where she softly wraps around the bulge of Hector’s pommel, and smoothly glides along the stiff length of his hilt, “to take me fir—uh!— f-first?”

 

[Hector]

It all comes squeezed tight. Strong. Wanting and welcoming. She draws him in. More and more with each ply of his finger, then fingers. Knuckle deep, down to the gutters. All the gush and slick sop of their doing, like sun warmed sap in the wells of his digits and her thighs. It drives him on, more and more, with each bumpy rub as she moves to that more and more. The smell of her. The sound of her. The weight and all the jiggle and bounce of muscle and fat.

Little words. Little sounds. Eked out. Panted. Rasping sweet against his ear. A tune for him to follow. "Osytha," he whispers her name as he grins cruel for how much he likes her there. Who's words sound so much like a song he wants to learn. "How much are you going to give?" he rumbles as he pumps, and pumps. She gives and gives, all he could ever want to take. And he breaths it all in. Smiling wide, working hard, his muscles burning up his arm with the rock and press of his pumps to bring her whole tidy house down.

A flash across his mind where he can see it. Her there, in that home by the watermill. Ribbons in her hair. Long dress tidy, and kempt. And a plate crashes to the floor. Those big blue eyes wide as she turns to find the shatter. A little "Ope" out of that pretty little mouth of hers.

A hot breath spills out of him as he feels her winding undone. Her hands there to take up what space he so greedily kept between them. She wants it. She wants him. All of him. And for that moment, with his cock pressed there between her thighs, against his hand, and her slobbering cunt, he lets her have it. Digs it in. His own slobbering head presses, popps up, and smooths down the trunk against her wet lips, to the blood fat base of him.

"You're a fucking mess," he says with a look too pleased. Fingers still feeling how she's hugged about them. Leans down over her. Kisses the side of her face. Body still moving. Bites her neck. Soft. Harder. Plants his lips there.

Her hands are at work. Grabbing him. Squeezing him. Gliding down to the hilt. A swordsman's grip there to hold him sure and strong and deft with all their rigid attention. Her calloused fingers wrapped so greedily about how he bends just the bit to one side. Something as to how they are crossed. How they are tangled there. In each other's hands. His hips wanting her. His cock fat and swollen in her palm. Dribbling clear sticky sap out the little lips on its plump head. Making a mess on her as he rocks to the moment.

“Where—dost tha w-want... to take me fir—uh!— f-first?”​

"Just like this," he whispers into her ear. "Just like this for a moment," his voice trembles as he's down beside her in the grass. Fingers still plying her, as he kisses her. Relishes in how she works him back with those strong and delicate hands. How oft he had stolen glances betwixt the stacks. Seen her hard at work, pen twifting across the page. Researching. Reporting. Long into the night.

It was a funny thought. "Let me just be one of your lucky pens," he laughs. Shudders. "A moment longer,"

 

[Osytha]

Osytha. Oh, gods. His evil little smile. How much are you going to give? So happy at the sight of her down here. You’re a fucking mess. Turned into this mindless, obscene spectacle. How much? Anything. Everything. You’re a. She’ll flaunt every disgrace her body can offer. Wail like a whore for him. Fucking mess. Follow any vile, degrading command Hector gives, if it just keeps his cruel eyes on her a little longer.

Closer, again. He lowers to her, and the mere promise of his great, muscled frame is pressing her down into the grass. She slides her lonely arm up his back, tangling her fingers into the base of his black curls. Hector cages her in the sweat-slick, dark, heaving bars of his body, and it becomes everything. His heavy scent rising through her head once more, and breath burning her ear as he kisses his way down her cheek, her jaw, her neck. Her skin screams at the mere breeze from his lungs. When the hard points of teeth press down, she arches away, baring the full, taut stretch of her throat.

Hector nibbles her, taunting; promising. Osytha’s heart hammers harder to feel his lips drag back even further against her flesh, his maw widen and push, then — thunderbolts of pain flashing outward through her neck, her skull, her chest. Those blue eyes go as wide and round open as they ever could, and she quivers against him with a gasp. She feels the doe pinned beneath a wolf; bodies locked, desperate but helpless as the fangs close around her…

Something clicks over in Osytha. Her stroke falters for a second, the moans swell higher. She spasms around Hector’s fingers.

Not yet. She wants more before this part of it ends. Osytha focuses on the sensation in her hand, the way she’s moving against him: tracing that slight curve and bow to his shape, testing his firm shaft, fingertips brushing over that softer channel running along his underside. Down, and up, as he easily follows the flow of her hand. To his apex, where she teases the heel of her palm over the tender ridge of his corona, and a little further, to just cup that softer, flaring head.

There’s a wetness budding there. Slippery and tacky, smearing down his length with each pass of her hand, which slides easier along his cock for that glistening sheen. Osytha begins hearing a sound from her strokes to rival the obscene noises Hector’s fingers are coaxing out her own nethers.

“Just like this. Just like this for a moment.”​

They find themselves beside each other in the grass. Coiled into, cresting and crashing against, over and over again, each other. Hector’s lips brush past her ear to come hovering over her mouth. The hot, thick air of his lungs spills across Osytha and she sucks it up in a small moment before they meet. Kissing in a way which opens it all up to him, begging they reach yet deeper inside one another. Gods, why is he tormenting her like this? She wants it. She needs it. Now, before… before—

“Let me just be one of your lucky pens. A moment longer…”​

Osytha gazes, uncomprehending, at him pressed so close beside her on their green bed. “W-What…?”

Hector’s laughing at his little silliness. She feels a giggle of her own rising up, and makes the mistake of letting it out. Then he strokes her in that spot, and her laugh becomes a cry. Louder, more guttural, more base than any other yet.

Hearing her own voice like that, hearing just what Hector’s doing to her… it brings it all into a terrible, crystal focus. It’s like Osytha’s opening her eyes for the first time to see the face pressed so close to hers, and it’s him. Hector, whose cheeks flush and gaze averts over silly word-games. Hector, who crushes her white-hog rage beneath his cold steel like it’s nothing. Hector, the man who’ll weep with a brother’s hurt and grief. Hector of the whimsical little sketchbook. Hector with the sad, dark eyes. The hungry eyes. The eyes on her. That’s him, kissing her and laughing, rubbing his body to hers, dribbling into her palm.

Hector’s moving inside her.

Osytha’s rhythm tumbles and drops entirely. It’s too much. All she can do is curl into him, trembling, clenching every muscle tight in a desperate attempt not to fall apart. It’s not enough. Squeezing down harder than ever around his fingers, impossible even for her to know if she’s trying to push them out or trap him inside her.

No— not yet—!

But it’s too late to stop. No more whimpering sighs; Osytha’s breath heaves hot over Hector’s throat as her voice wails out, loud and wild to Hector’s strokes, her body clung to his in frantic need.

There are strange sheep, bleating in the fields…

 

[Hector]

"W-what?"
​

A laugh. "Don't make me say it again," teeth bared and white. Cheeks aching from all the smiling as he peers at her through thick black lashes. Weight of her against him. Pressing against his skull.

But the way she works him. Has his shudder. Bite his own lip. "Work me like one of your long feather quills,"

The way she grips and they twine, like the pair of animals they are, fuzz of legs bristling against each other. There half undone and afield in the tall grass. He nuzzles her. His moist lips there to hers. Press and give. Pull and take as all the nasty sweetness of their sounds huff and puff in steam swirling between them. Limbs twining and hooking. Pushing and pulling to that tantric rhythm their hands work into each other.

He follows those little rhythms she seems so moved by. Just where she seems to like it. Thumb moving littler circles about her clit, as he feels the squish of bumps and frills there. Whole of her taking him in, and in with each rock of her hips against him.

His fingers almost feel like lightning rods. Wet and pruning, sure. But damn if it all doesn't have him stiff in her hand and moving for more to the rustle hiss of their hideaway nest.

He feels her as he hears her. The spill of something. From laugh, to moan, to cry. He rides that wail all the way down to the bone. Arm moving steady as his hips move steady there too. He fights to keep the rhythm that won him that cry. Weight of him shifting behind the surge and coil of her tightening.

"That's it," he says through his teeth, face buried to the side of her. Hand still pumping slow. "That's my Dusker," he teases as he kisses. "That's how I want you," pushes back her mess of silvered hair with the other. "Good and ready,"

 

[Osytha]

The dulcet rumble through Osytha’s ear feels more beehive than voice, all maddened and maddening buzz. “Work me like one of your long feather quills.” But then, Hector’s words are just another sensation pouring through her — each which pale to the relentless sting of his fingers.

Even if she understood, Osytha’s not in any state for penmanship.

And she’s so swollen, look who’s come out to play? Just below her furry patch, hood now pulled back: a fat little nub begging for attention. Finds an eager dance partner in his thumb, and they waltz circles in each other’s embrace. While Hector’s powerful legs are rubbing up between hers. Keeping her nice and wide. There’s the slickness in her hand, and a smear of it below her navel; places he’s anointed Osytha in his precious filth. Everything blurring with his hum. To have his overwhelming form pump against her, sweat off their skin mingling together… to feel the hump of every knuckle slide past her plump, drooling lips. The hook and trail of it. Curling his fingers inside her, and spinning her into a tizzy by the squish of his thumb.

“That’s it. That’s my Dusker. That's how I want you. Good and ready.”​

She’s well past the point of ‘ready’. Too much. Every slip-stroke-swirl is a throbbing shock that has Osytha braying. Not enough. Clenching, trembling; seizing up and crying out. It’s too much. Less that she’s riding the great waves of climax as being dragged under, drowning, in their swell and crash.

And Hector’s still going. Slow, and steady, and merciless.

Some new kind of desperation in those storm-tossed eyes, now. Beneath the shine of tears and wild, lost look — recognition. A sudden, terrible urge on the cusp of breaking free as each pulse through Osytha’s body has her coming unmade. But she’s helpless against his touch. Digs her claws into him just as much from want as panic, while she yet tries to wrest a word into the song lifting from her throat. Tries to.

But she unravels first. Spasming with a long, lowing cry at the same time Hector feels a curt little splash against his palm. All of her tight and tense, and then…

… and then, not. Then, just a melting excuse for a woman. Her wails descend back down into whimpers. Limbs ease limp. Hands remember how to move. Chest rising, falling, hard to win each breath. Osytha still jerks and stutters to the rhythm of Hector’s fingers, but after a moment she is also, slowly, rocking against him once more. Drawing out that high as it fades to a simple and steady pleasure.

“’M sorry,” she whispers into him. “Ah’ll,” her fingers belatedly pick up a long, flowing stride along his silverpoint, “make et— up to thee,” she implores.

How selfish of her. Even as she clings on like this, she also wonders: is Hector disappointed? Unimpressed? Gods, is he disgusted — at how easy she was, at what she… did, at the end? Osytha slides her hand out from his curls, and softly caresses his cheek. But she still wants him. Still wants him. Still wants him.

“Ah’ll do anything.” Blue eyes, pleading and tender, lift up to search his face. “Hector…”

 

[Hector]

And there it is. The shudder. The shake. The wonderful trembling quake. Moving through her in pulses that course up through his arm and legs as he goes on pump, pumping his hand. Bones working to their base. Meat feeling every slick tight, slimy, slippery inch that rasps one moment to glide the next all squish and give and slide and take.

He takes her mouth with his. Lips hungry for the press. For the bite of plump little pillows he's watched frown and pout, and smile and laugh and he bites and he kisses and presses as the motion of it all eases and works through her and him and them tantric for all its beautiful rhythm.

Her gasping crashes against his ears. All spray and crush of sound. Diffused into mist that clung warm in the canals of his skull. A dew for him to savor there in the ripples of his darkest waters. The sweet sting of nails against his skin and digging into flesh ushering him on to surer rocks and grinds of hips and shift of weight he plants with that long strange note that bleats out of her. Wet splashes in his hands, all dribble and soak.

Small turn the sounds and small turn his affections. Pumps slowing, fingers stilling. Still feeling all the little pucker and suck of her pulsing pussy. Inviting him in. Pushing him out. She moves the more to him. For him. As her warm mess dribbles down him. Soaks against his legs. And he puts his lips firm against her face. Upon her cheek. There to taste the fat wells of salt and tears she gave to him too.

"M sorry,"
​

"Don't be,"

"Ah'll" she gets him to squirm, to laugh. "Make et- up to thee,"

​

He shivers. Shakes. Shakes his head. "There's nothing to make up," he nestles there beside her a moment as she works him. Enjoys the feeling too much. Smiles wide, whilst his head knocks against hers, and he rests there in the grass, with the bird song and bug song. Frogs in the near distance. Sheep bells clanging farther off. But all he can hear is her. Breathing. Panting. Moving. Her hand at his side.

"Ah'll do anything." ​

He feels her lashes wink wide and open, her hand there against his face, a comfort. His own eyes wide there with hers, snaked as they are, breathless as they are. Twined and in the dirt. His eyes open wide and he sees her there. Raw as a fresh wound gashed across his heart. Wanting.

"Hector..."
​

"Osytha," he says. All motion towards her. Let his cock ride up those strong thighs to feel all that wet welcome. Those lips just there, fat and plump and spread beneath the dark bush he liked the scratch of so much. The thought sets him to throb. To stiffen. His hips hinging to let rub and glide the length of him against and across it all. That drooling mouth marks him. But his hand's slipped free and grasped her thigh, slid up her hip. Holds the bone hard and pulls her flat against him. Kisses her. Again and again as he moves there between her thighs pressed tight, and nethers sopped as he rubbed his full stiffness against the outside of her cunt. Lips of his mouth part. Breath thins to a mist between them. "You already gave me something to come back home to,"

 

[Osytha]

The breath catches in Osytha’s chest. Hector doesn’t pull away, doesn’t voice any revulsion, even with the warmth of her obscenity dripping off his fingers. He’s seen her reduced to something animal; graceless, mindless, braying her need up to the sky. Squirting filth into his palm.

And he’s still here.

Rubbing up rigid between her legs, slick from both their excitement. Digging his stout hand into her hip with a greedy pull-kiss-nibble which leaves her lip sweetly throbbing. And Osytha’s not so spent that Hector’s insistent little knocking at her door goes unanswered; she moans for him, softly, warmly, with the embers of her desire gradually stoking back to life.

There in his grasp, she stares at Hector anew. Searches him. Finds his twinging brow, and the hungry set of his lips. Taut features, strained to the cusp. Osytha tries to look deeper, through his feverish rhythm against her body, past the crush of his voice. You already gave me something to come back home to. It begs the question: does he not have that? Although, when loss keeps carving away at Astenvale year after year, leaving the place more hollow than before — then how much worse is it for Hector, for whom the order is his entire family? She’s seen his loneliness for herself. Something to come back home to. But that; that sounds like hope.

Dare she also hope? Not just to make it back home… but for even more beyond that?

Osytha’s still cupping his heated cheek in her hand. She brushes her fingers down the give of dark flesh, passing his jaw’s sharp cut, to fall upon a terse neck rippling in day’s late amber light. Beautiful. This great, big, precious man. Clutching at her like his life depends upon it. Mind, half-lost in rutting against her slippery underpass. Beautiful.

That hand reaches Hector’s shoulder. All it takes is a bit of a push, an out-flung leg, to roll her weight over and then — Osytha has him on his back. She straddles him, her hips grinding downward so as not to lose the press of his cock while she usurps the motion; slowly, steadily, teasing her wet slit up and down that firm curve. But, without taking him in. Not yet.

“There,” croons his dusker. “Just relax, pet. That’s et…”

She arches back until she’s sat up almost straight, though her gaze stays locked to Hector’s shade-dappled body, with the snug handle of her hips still pumping away beneath his hold.

“That were selfish of me. Lettin’ thee do all the work…” Osytha’s fingers close around the hem of her shirt and, riding on the upswing of her rump, she rolls it over her head in a fluid motion. “… feelin’ seea good while tha’rt left in such a state.” The chestwrap is next, unfurling quickly beneath her hands. “But now — let me take care of thee, mm?”

As the strophium falls away, Osytha’s breasts rush back into shape; a short, heavy drop to a sharp stop and jiggle. Marking her pale flesh is a faint blue squiggle here and there, and at her peaks, the blush nubs of petite nipples poking out from rosy areolae. Enough there for a comfortable fit in Hector’s hands. And enough there to quiver by the gentle, persistent rocking of her hips.

“Thine, too. Please?” Osytha’s gaze flickers to his shirt. “Fuck — tha’rt gorgeous, Hector. Ah want to look at all of thee.”

Osytha kneels there, wonder returned in her eyes as she stares down at the sheer beauty of having Hector sprawled beneath her. Russet-dark eyes, ravenous rich lips. Earthy skin shining with definition. She especially likes that sharp ‘v’ cutting in from his hips, and how it funnels her eye downward to the lewd, wet gleam of his shaft. Her fingers slowly rove those lines; a reverent pilgrimage through his abdomen’s hard quilt of muscle, lingering around the cute little well of his navel.

But Osytha can do even more than just look and touch. Her other hand, the one filmed over in the sheen of his precum, rises up to those plump little pillows.

Hector’s musk clings to those gently tapered digits, faint yet pungent all at once. There’s little elegance to it; nothing like jasmine’s fair aroma, nor the sweetness of honey. It’s raw, bordering on feral. This odour is an assault, crashing through Osytha’s mazed head to pound madly at the big red button of libido. Gods, she wants imprison his funk in oil and ambergris so she can take a little bottle of him out on the long, lonely nights away, and drown in his reek while she touches herself…

“Gorgeous,” she echoes, past the taste of Hector’s cock upon her fingertips. All the while keeping up her rump’s rhythmic rub, slap, jiggle against the topside of his cock. Osytha leans forward to him, sending a couple of dark locks tumbling off her shoulder. “Now then… come on home,” she whispers, driving in her plea with a strong, deep, grind against his loins. “My flower. My Hector… come home to me.”