Momo considered the proposal with an appropriately thoughtful expression, his ears tilting mindfully as the orderly rows of apple trees came into view beyond the last of the alders. The idea of a treasure hunt seemed, at first, entirely unnecessary. They could simply take a few apples, leave behind their payment, and be on their way. But the more he considered the alternative, the more appealing it became. There was something delightfully ridiculous about transforming a simple act of scrumping into an elaborate little adventure, especially if Godwin was going to be given the opportunity to play along after the fact.

Still, some part of his attention remained behind them.

That shadow had been there.

Momo couldn't quite shake the image of it: the dark shape between the trees, canine in silhouette, gone almost as quickly as he'd noticed it. He had seen no disturbance in the Shroud. Felt nothing from the spirits. There had been no sound, no scent of anything immediately threatening. Every sensible part of him insisted there was nothing to worry about.

His instincts disagreed.

It was an unpleasant little knot beneath his ribs, the sort of feeling that had no name and needed none. He'd learned long ago that danger did not always announce itself. Sometimes it was simply the sudden certainty that something was wrong, even when every piece of evidence said otherwise.

He didn't want to alarm Osytha over a shadow he couldn't even prove he'd seen. More importantly, he didn't want her looking back toward the woods. So Momo kept smiling, kept his tone light, and gently increased their pace.

“A treasure hunt…” he repeated, drawing the words out as though weighing them with great importance. Their joined hands swung between them, and his thumb idly brushed across the back of hers. “I rather like that.”

His eyes remained fixed ahead as the orchard drew nearer. “We could leave a few clues throughout the place. Nothing too difficult, mind you. Just enough to make him wonder what on earth we've been up to.” A mischievous glint entered his eyes, though there was a faint urgency beneath it that he hoped she wouldn't notice. “And the final clue could lead him to wherever we decide to leave the payment. That way, technically speaking, we're not even keeping anything from him. We're simply giving him the opportunity to discover what we've left behind.”

He glanced briefly toward Osytha, then ahead again.

“Which means we're not thieves.”

A beat.

“We're organizers of a very poorly funded treasure hunt.”

A quiet laugh escaped him, and his tail swayed behind him. He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder again. Instead, he concentrated on the orchard ahead, on the neat rows of trees and the farmhouse beyond them, on anything that gave his mind somewhere else to settle.

“We could make the clues tell a story, too. Something unnecessarily grand. A mysterious stranger arrives beneath the cover of darkness. A priceless bounty is discovered. Ancient forces conspire to conceal it beneath the branches of the orchard…” His expression became increasingly solemn as the story grew more ridiculous. “And only the bravest farmer can recover his stolen treasure.”

Momo's ears twitched.

“Which, admittedly, is a rather generous description of a few apples and whatever else we manage to carry.”

His fingers tightened around Osytha's for just a moment before relaxing again. It was an unconscious gesture, less affectionate than reassuring himself that she was still beside him. The strange feeling in his stomach remained, stubbornly refusing to be dismissed.

“As for the payment, I think it should be part of the final prize. Something he'll actually enjoy finding.” His gaze settled on the farmhouse. “Then, once he's followed our little trail to the end, he gets his treasure back.”

His grin returned, more naturally this time.

“And perhaps a note informing him that he's been robbed by two highly respectable travelers who definitely paid for everything.”

He laughed softly, shaking his head.

“Though perhaps that lacks a certain elegance.”

Momo's pace carried them a little farther down the slope before he finally allowed himself one quick glance back toward the alders.

Nothing.

Only trees.

His ears lowered for the briefest moment before he turned forward again.

“Well,” he said lightly, giving Osytha's hand another gentle squeeze, “we should probably get on with our very respectable criminal enterprise before I start taking this entirely too seriously.”

The words were playful. His smile was convincing.

But somewhere beneath it, that knot in his stomach remained.

And Momo had no intention of letting it get any closer to her.
 
“Ee, many’s the darin’ outlaw whose legend lives on in the vast treasures they left be’ind,” Osytha agrees, whole-heartedly. “Piles o’ hidden gold just waitin’ to be found, somewhere deep in the woods. Or in us case, say… thruppence? Give or take.”

… and so the legend of Anna Pell the Red, perfidious pearmain poacher and pippin pincher, arose. A scourge of orchaders everywhere, whose black farmer’s market empire of purloined pomes meant she had a finger in every pie. They say there was a Malus in-cider from a young age; Anna’s father was also rotten to the core, having been hanged for scrumping from the royal gardens, and you know the apple never falls far from the tree. Thus, the wicked business which she cultivated bore such fruit to yield a king’s ransom… until one day she forgot to keep her eyes peeled, and the jig was up. Before she could be plucked by the hands of justice, though, Anna hid her incredible fortune somewhere in the very same orchard where she met her fate. Her empire, the lone apple of her eye, is long since crumbled, a fact which would make her turnover in her grave. But they say that treasure is still there — just waiting to be discovered…

“… though mebbe we can abridge et some,” Osytha quietly remarks from where she lies prone, masked behind a drift of autumn leaves as she surveils Godwin’s orchard from the edge of the woods. The lutinċil is safely packed away, its case stowed at the back of her belt. “No need to go ringbarking some poor tree for the sake of a silly story — eyah, picquets sighted at two o’clock. Fifteen rods an’ movin’ widdershins.”

She observes the distant, ambling figure of Godwin carefully inspect today’s fresh windfalls. Those which apparently make the cut are loaded into his big rattling wheelbarrow, and then the fellow is off again to poke around the next tree in line. ‘Alby’, the man’s waist-high brindle mastiff, trots happily along by his master’s side, sniffing and snuffling as a hound is wont to do. Osytha feels Guffers’ tail thwack against the leaf drift in response; boyo sees a Friend out there, and wants to say hello. But he won’t, not without Osytha giving him the go-ahead.

“Owd Godwin’s easy enow to give the slip, but Allbone there is goin’ to mek things tricky.” She glances over toward Momo, then gestures to their left. “I reckon we circle west a bit. There’s some Ribstons ower there which’ll be abaht ready — they’re good eatin’. An’ if we’re lucky, might yet be a few Syke-Houses late to the party.”
 
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Momo stared at Osytha for a moment, his expression caught somewhere between admiration and disbelief. He had expected a few embellishments to the story. He had not expected an entire criminal dynasty, a pearmain poacher, and quite so many apple-related crimes against language.

“Abridge it?” he murmured, lowering himself into the leaves beside her. “I think you've already done irreparable damage to the Common Tongue. I'm not sure abridging it will save us now.”

The corner of his mouth twitched as he peered through the leaves toward the orchard. Godwin was easy enough to spot, ambling between the trees with his wheelbarrow, while the mastiff padded along beside him. Momo's ears followed the distant clatter of the wheelbarrow for a moment before his gaze shifted toward the dog.

“Ah. There's our real adversary.”

He watched Alby for a moment, studying the dog's movements rather than Godwin's. The mastiff was considerably more alert than its master, and Guffy's eager tail thwacking against the leaves certainly wasn't helping matters.

Momo reached back and gave the dog's flank a gentle pat, silently encouraging him to remain where he was. Then he turned his attention toward the western side of the orchard Osytha had indicated.

“Ribstons, then. Syke-Houses if fortune favors us.” His voice dropped conspiratorially. “We shall have to be selective. No point risking our lives for inferior apples.”

A faint smile returned, but his eyes lingered on the trees ahead.

For all the ridiculousness of their little expedition, that uncomfortable feeling from the woods had never quite left him. It remained buried somewhere beneath his ribs, quiet but persistent. He still couldn't explain it, and perhaps that was what bothered him most. There was nothing tangible to point to, nothing in the Shroud to confirm what his instincts had noticed. Just a shadow that shouldn't have mattered.

Yet it did.

Momo glanced briefly back toward the alders.

Nothing.

He turned away again almost immediately, careful not to let the movement become obvious. If there was something there, he didn't want to draw Osytha's attention to it. And if there wasn't... well, there was little point in frightening her over his own imagination.

“West it is,” he whispered, shifting slightly closer to Osytha as he settled into their little leafy hideout. His tail curled loosely against the ground behind him. “Lead the way, Syr. I'll keep watch for the mastiff.”

His eyes narrowed playfully.

“And should we be discovered, I shall bravely sacrifice you to the hound while I make off with the apples.”

A beat.

“It's important to establish trust before a mission begins, after all.”

Then came that damned smirk, a fang peeking through just enough to make it insufferable.
 
“I think you’ve already done irreparable damage to the Common Tongue. I’m not sure abridging it will save us now.”​

“Aye, well,” awkward mumbling and a fresh flush of self-awareness at this crushing critique; on reflection, perhaps Osytha should leave the word-smithing to others. “Tha hast ’eard the way folk round ’ere speak. Manglin’ the trade tongue’s sort of us speciality.”

There’s a subtle shift of pressure at her back, accompanied by the soft whisper of a tiny form sliding over the stout cloth of her gambeson, and then a short, perky chirp in her ear.

“Thank you, Syr Dragon,” Osytha murmurs back, lifting a finger to give it a tiny rub beneath its chin. “I’m glad that somebody appreciates my fine wit.”

“Lead the way, Syr. I’ll keep watch for the mastiff. And should we be discovered, I shall bravely sacrifice you to the hound while I make off with the apples.”​

“Thy dedication to the mission does thee credit,” she mutters darkly. Though, such tone lies at odds with her expression.

That insufferable, toothy grin of Momo’s seems to get a little more sufferable with each appearance. And she’s enjoying this still, rather immensely. But it’ll be nice when they go back to doing something where they can hold hands again, too.

Osytha shuffles back a bit further out of sight before rising to a near couch, hidden from those below by the coppice trunks and lip of a low hump of earth. Careful with her footing — of the noisome risk of brittle twigs hidden by drifts of leaves — she stalks on through this little woodland’s citrine palette, keeping in a near squat, but covering ground quickly.

Fact is, she’s keen to leave. Momo still seems kind of distracted, maybe even unsettled, since seeing whatever it is that had startled him back there. If he’d been able to shrug it off, then Osytha probably could too. But it’s getting to the point where…

“… Sure everythin’s alreight, Momo?” Her alert blue eyes flicker back his way, and further, into the darkness. “We can yet go back an’ have a proper gander, if tha wold’st feel better for et — just in case.”
 
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Momo slowed when he heard her, his ears angling back toward Osytha. For a moment, he said nothing. His eyes remained on the path ahead, though his attention had clearly shifted to her.

She had noticed.

Of course she had.

Momo let out a quiet breath through his nose, the faintest smile touching his mouth. There wasn't much point in pretending with her, not when she knew him well enough to notice the little things.

“I'm all right,” he murmured at first, though the words lacked their usual certainty. Not entirely a lie. He was still wrestling with the feeling.

His gaze flicked back toward the darkness between the trees. He considered the offer for a moment before shaking his head.

“I don't think we should go back.”

Was that... fear in his voice? He lowered himself a little as they moved, keeping pace with her while his eyes continued to sweep the woods around them. Nothing moved. No disturbance touched the Shroud. No spirit announced itself. Whatever he'd seen remained stubbornly absent.

“That is, I don't think I saw anything worth turning around for.” His brow furrowed slightly. “That's the problem.”

Momo's expression became more thoughtful as he searched for the right words.

“I thought I saw something watching us. Something... canine, perhaps. Just for a moment.” He glanced toward her. “But when I looked again, there was nothing there. No spirit. No Shroud disturbance. Nothing I could sense at all.”

His tail gave a small, uneasy flick behind him.

“So perhaps it was nothing. A trick of the fog, poor lighting, my imagination...” He gave a faint shrug “But it left me with a rather unpleasant feeling.”

He looked ahead again, then deliberately relaxed his shoulders.

“And I'd rather not drag you back into the woods to investigate something I can't even prove was there.”

There was a brief pause before his expression softened.

“Besides, we're already here.”

A hint of his earlier mischief returned to his eyes as he nodded toward the orchard.

“We have apples to steal.”

His hand drifted toward hers, fingers brushing against hers before he offered his palm.

“Once we're somewhere a little more open, I'll feel better about it.”

He gave her a small, reassuring smile.

“And if that shadow really was something worth worrying about, I'd much rather it come looking for us here than have us wander back into its hiding place.”

A beat.

“Preferably after we've acquired the apples. I'd hate for all this sneaking about to be for nothing.”

That damn grin.
 
That damned grin. Telling her everything’s alright, and oh, how Osytha wants to believe it. Problem is she also believes what else Momo’s told her, even the parts he didn’t mean to. She believes in the unease he hasn’t been able to shake off just yet, and she believes he’s right in that if there is danger, she shouldn’t drag him back there. Not in his condition. But hey, he’s probably also right that it was nothing at all, especially if Guffers noticed diddly squat, stinkhorn or no stinkhorn. Osytha believes the best thing she can do is let it go and carry on with an enjoyable spell of fruit larceny.

For now. But she knows it would be negligent of her not to check it out later, even just to rule out anything besides the much more likely explanation of an over-tired mind.

Osytha relaxes, the hard lines of uncertainty she’d carried, melting into something like relief. Or resolution.

She smiles back at him. “Aye. Reight tha art, Momoshiro. There’s some Syke-Houses with us names on ’em — if we can but shape ussen afore Godwin heads back this way.”


* * *​


A low wind kicks up, cool and keening, inquisitive fingers brushing the apple trees back as it slithers past them. An easterly, which is just as well for a small squad of aspiring scrumpers; something to keep their scent away from Alby while they work.

From their new vantage point, Osytha watches a few seconds for more signs of movement beyond that of swaying branches and, a little ways off, a small unkindness of ravens making their own sortie into Godwin’s territory.

“Mind them nihthrōcas,” she warns, pointing out the birds. Little black shapes waddling, pecking at windfalls, croaking merrily amongst themselves. “If they scatter, et’ll be a dead give-away that someone’s ’ere.”

Once she’s satisfied, Osytha motions them forward. Guffy seems to have noticed some sort of cue, and now he moves differently too before; more slink, less bounce, alert and glued to the badger’s heels. She herself continues in that low swooping crouch, silent and swift. Although, her stealth is somewhat spoiled by the psychedelic show-off still coiled about her shoulders.

With a little snick, Osytha’s quillion dagger appears in her hand. She glances at Momo.

“What’s thy preference, syr — pickin’, or prose?”
 
Momo glanced toward Osytha, a faint smile lingering on his lips as he considered her question. There was something rather endearing about the way she approached their little expedition, all quiet determination and a hint of mischief. It was a welcome change from the troubles that had occupied his thoughts lately, and he found himself savoring the chance to enjoy something so wonderfully ordinary in her company. Even the prospect of sneaking into someone else's orchard held a certain charm, particularly when she seemed so pleased with the idea. He lowered himself into a crouch beside Guffers, scratching the little dog affectionately behind the ears before turning his attention back to the knight.

“I'm afraid my experience with prose is rather limited,” he admitted, his voice warm with amusement “Though I suppose I could attempt a few verses, if you promise not to hold them against me.”

His crimson eyes wandered across the orchard, taking in the rows of trees and the tempting clusters of fruit nestled among their leaves. A light breeze stirred the branches overhead, sending a soft rustle through the foliage. For a moment, he allowed himself to simply enjoy the quiet, letting the gentle sounds of the orchard distract him from the lingering troubles at the back of his mind. Then his gaze returned to Osytha, briefly settling on the dagger in her hand. He rose and stepped closer, a playful, conspiratorial look creeping into his expression.

“Picking, I think. I would hate to deprive you of the pleasure of demonstrating your expertise.” His smile turned a touch more teasing. “Besides, if we're caught, I should like to be able to claim I was merely following the instructions of a very persuasive knight.”

The words came easily, carrying that gentle lilt he so often adopted when he was comfortable in someone's company. He knew Osytha was more than capable of looking after herself, and that once her mind was set on something, persuading her otherwise could prove a rather fruitless endeavor. Still, he liked the thought of letting her take the lead. It would give him an excuse to watch her work, perhaps even learn a thing or two about the art of apple gathering from someone who seemed to approach it with the same quiet confidence she brought to her duties as a knight. There was something refreshing about seeing her outside the weight of those responsibilities, indulging in a little mischief simply because she wished to.

His tail swayed gently behind him as he moved toward the nearest tree, betraying more of his amusement than his otherwise composed expression might have allowed. The earlier unease had not entirely faded; it lingered at the edges of his thoughts, a subdued reminder that peaceful moments were never something to take for granted. But for now, he was content to leave those worries where they were. Osytha was beside him, Guffers was close at hand, and the orchard offered a welcome reprieve from everything waiting beyond its trees.

Momo studied the nearest branches, searching for a promising cluster of apples. Several hung just beyond easy reach, their skins catching the light where the leaves parted overhead. He tilted his head, considering how best to retrieve them without making too much noise. A little help from his spirits would certainly make the task easier, but his reserves were hardly overflowing. Summoning anything more substantial than the small dragon currently perched on Osytha's shoulder was out of the question. Wait a minute.

His gaze shifted toward the Rainbow Dragon.

“Oh,” he murmured, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Thought you could just lay about, eh?”

The little spirit nestled contentedly against Osytha's shoulder, looking altogether too comfortable for something that had been summoned to assist its master. At the sound of Momo's voice, it turned its head toward him and answered with an indignant huff, releasing a puff of multicolored smoke that curled briefly through the air. Momo stared at it for a moment, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement. Then the corners of his mouth began to creep upward.

His eyes flicked from the dragon to the apples, then back again. The spirit followed his gaze, regarding the fruit with what could only be described as profound disinterest before looking back at him. For a moment, the two regarded one another in silent disagreement. Momo's grin widened. If he was going to spend the energy summoning the little creature in the first place, he might as well put it to work.

He pointed toward the apples, then gave the dragon an emphatic upward nod.

“Go on now, you. ”

With one last indignant huff, the Rainbow Dragon lifted itself from Osytha’s shoulder and drifted into the air. Momo watched it go for a moment, a faint smile still tugging at his lips. Then his attention returned to Osytha.

And this time, he truly looked at her.

Something in the moment seemed to shift. The rustle of leaves, the distant sounds of the orchard, even the little dragon’s industrious flitting among the branches all seemed to fade into the background. Time itself appeared to slow, stretching the space between one heartbeat and the next. Momo’s expression softened as his crimson eyes lingered on her face, taking in the familiar features that had come to mean so much to him. Whatever playful remark he might have offered died before it could reach his lips.

He wasn’t entirely sure what prompted him to move. Perhaps it was the simple warmth of her presence, or the sudden realization that he had been holding back a feeling he no longer wished to keep to himself. Whatever the reason, his feet carried him forward before he could think better of it. His long strides closed the distance between them with effortless ease, and he came to a stop just before her.

Before Osytha could say a word, Momo lifted his hands and gently cupped her face, his thumbs resting softly against her cheeks. For the briefest moment, he searched her eyes, his own gaze warm and unguarded. Then he leaned down and kissed her.
 
“Picking, I think. I would hate to deprive you of the pleasure of demonstrating your expertise.”​

“Reckon tha coud’st go back to scathin’ honesty, Momo?” Osytha retorts. “The sarcasm hurts even worse, somehow.”

They stop beneath a wizened old tree, where the promise of gold-skinned and russet-splotched pomes goads them from the higher branches. Osytha’s work, however, draws her eyes downward to a lower section of trunk instead, which she regards thoughtfully. The pommel of her dagger tap-taps to her chin while Syr Rainbow Dragon buoys gracefully up, reminiscent partly of a snake’s winding movements, and partly of drifting smoke. Her eyes flicker after it, mesmerised for a few seconds by the spirit’s sublime otherness.

Then she returns to contemplating the woody canvas. Her ‘expertise’, Momo had said. Whatever she carves will have to be good enough to impress him, but also, simple and concise enough for a salt-of-the-earth fellow like Godwin to follow without much difficulty. She needs an expression of perfected economy. A parsimonious masterpiece.

The dagger’s tip begins scoring pale green lines through the bark.

THERE ONCE WAS A SCRUMPER MOST FELL
WHO WENT BY THE NAME ‘ANNA PELL’​

There. Nothing beats a good limerick.

“I think I’d like if tha wrotest at least one verse,” Osytha says, scratching away. “Et’ll be nice. To ’ave somewhere tha madest thy mark, that I could visit…”

Osytha remains vaguely aware of the lazy motion around her while she works; a shimmering serpent snapping sun-reddened apples from branches overhead, slow little gusts barely bending little blades of grass between the trees, and a waddling hop-hop of bickering ravens out the corner of her eye. Then, she hears Momoshiro’s approaching footsteps. Osytha is so absorbed in perfecting her wordpla, that only once his shadow falls over her and she can sense him right there at her side, does she look around.

And just like that, Momo’s hands are cradling her face. Soft rest of his thumbs across her cheeks, as she stares up into that tender gaze.

“…?”

Then his face is close to hers. His lips against hers.

The dagger thuds down unnoticed to the earth. He’s kissing her. Osytha closes her eyes and meets him; presses back with the warmth and softness of her own. He’s kissing her. She feels her fingers at his chest, feels her hand clutch greedily to his lapel. Momoshiro’s kissing her. And it’s so natural kissing him back that nothing else even feels like a choice.

He’s so gentle… as gentle as can be. How, wonders Osytha, can something so gentle have her so completely in its power?

At some point, their lips part from one another. Osytha stares up at him still so close. Those untameable snowy locks. Tall peaks of his ears rising up above. Cute little eyebrows above a handsome, sharp nose. And his eyes. Her own are wide with something like wonder, flitting between one scarlet irises to his other.

She’s distantly aware they’re in an orchard. But their game here with it suddenly feels so… pointless.

“We, um.” Osytha gulps. Glances at her hand as it trails softly down his sternum, to a firm stomach. Eight spare her; will her blush ever get a chance to rest today? “… We can forget scrumpin’, on, on second thoughts. Um. If tha… if tha want’st to move on?”

Yes — move on. They were going to have a picnic, right? Maybe they can find somewhere quiet. Private. Somewhere comfortable to lie down and maybe do a bit more of this kissing and holding each other. Yes. That strikes Osytha as a much better idea than skulking around some silly old orchard.
 
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For a little while, Momo remained close, his hands still resting gently against Osytha's cheeks. The kiss had come on an impulse, born from a feeling he had struggled to put into words, and now that it had happened, he found himself reluctant to draw away. His crimson eyes searched hers, taking in the wonder and flustered warmth in her expression. When her fingers curled into his lapel, something in his chest softened, and his smile grew just a little more tender. He had missed this. Not simply the closeness, but the ease of being with her, the way affection seemed to come so naturally between them once neither tried to hide it.

As their lips parted, he let his thumbs brush lightly across her cheeks before lowering his hands, though he didn't step away. Her gaze wandered over his face, and he watched the color rise in hers with a quiet fondness. It was rather adorable, really. Osytha could face danger with a knight's resolve, yet a simple kiss seemed capable of leaving her quite thoroughly at a loss for words. He might have teased her for it, had he not been just as aware of the way his own heart was beating a little faster than usual.

When she finally spoke, suggesting they abandon their apple-stealing adventure and move on, Momo let out a soft chuckle.
“Move on?” he echoed, his ears tilting forward with playful curiosity. “And here I thought you were determined to leave your mark upon Godwin's tree. Have you already decided your masterpiece can wait?”

That damned grin.

His gaze briefly flicked toward the dagger lying forgotten in the grass, then to the half-finished limerick carved into the bark. The sight drew another smile from him. “I must admit, I was beginning to wonder whether the apples were ever going to stand a chance against your poetry.”

The teasing faded into something gentler as he looked back at her. He reached for her hand, taking it carefully in his own, his fingers slipping between hers. “But yes,” he said, his voice softening. “I'd like that. We can find somewhere quiet for our picnic. Somewhere we won't have to worry about ravens tattling on us, or whether Godwin might come wandering by.”

He gave her hand a small, affectionate squeeze, his smile warm and unguarded. “And if that happens to mean a little more kissing…” His eyes glimmered with a hint of mischief. “Well, I suppose I'll just have to endure it.”

Momo leaned forward to press a brief, lingering kiss to her forehead before drawing back enough to meet her eyes again.
“Come along, then, my knight. Let's find somewhere comfortable.” His tail swayed behind him as he turned with her, making no effort to hide his happiness. For the moment, the apples could wait. There were far sweeter things he would rather spend his time enjoying.
 
Well, she did ask Momo not to pull his punches. But the teasing barely registers as such — again, her literary debut doesn’t feel nearly as important anymore.

Mostly there’s just the lingering sense of his fingers trailing soft to her face. A squeeze of his hand around hers. The tenderness of Momo’s lips planted upon mouth, upon her brow. Sensations which her flesh refuses to quite forget.

And “a simple kiss” has her blushing like a maiden, which only makes her cheeks sizzle even worse. She’s done a lot more than just kiss before now, and without going this red over it. Because Momo’s different. He’s different in a way some part of her knows is dangerous, a part of her she doesn’t at all care to listen to.

You’ll regret it, that little piece whispers to her, before she shoves it down into the dark.

Osytha stares after Momo for a second, watching that chuffed tail swishing to and fro. She goes to step forward, pauses; remembers to pick up her dagger. Slips it back into the sheath, then hurries to catch up with him. Without really thinking about it, a jog flows into a couple of skipping steps, which take her back to Momo’s side. She’s slipping her arm around his. Resting her head on his shoulder. All rosy-warm, reaching, and quiet contentment.

Meanwhile, the saga of Anna Pell lies entirely forgotten behind them. Osytha didn’t even finish carving the first verse.

But maybe that’s just as well.


* * *​


They don’t have to go far to find a spot. Just a quick cut across to the road, back along until they reach their steeds, and then Osytha leads them along the small stream as it curves back around the yellowing hills.

She knows it is in fact drainage off of Jenny’s hillside water-meadows. Knows where it goes, too; collecting in a dew-pond shaded by some blackthorns and willows on the south side, open to sloping pasture on the others. All nicely tucked away from sight by that stand of trees and valley walls.

Forbs and Nise are let to graze at their leisure, slowly working their way along the turf and meadowsweet. Guffy finds plenty of interesting things to sniff around the tree-roots and waterline, darting eagerly between his olfactory investigations and his need to help Osytha with any sort of task. In this case, ‘helping’ involves crawling underneath the big shepherd’s plaid as she’s trying to lay it down like a blanket in a sunny patch, followed by play-fighting her hands and pinning the cloth under his dead weight while she works to smooth it out flat.

“Gi’ ower!” she curses the dog, flipping him on his back and attacking up and down his belly with tickles and scritches. “Bloody mongrel!”

Guffers happily snorts, snarls, and sneezes away in excitement.

Eventually, despite his best efforts, the blanket is neatly laid out. Packed lunches are procured (along with the cluster of apples Syr Rainbow had so kindly procured), and Guffy is safely occupied by means of a dried sheep’s ear.

Osytha kicks her shoes off to the side. She kneels there on the plaid, uncertain for a moment. Going a little pink in the face once again as her fingers start to untie the lacing closing up her bulky, padded gambeson’s front.

“’S just a bit, um, awkward, tha ken’st?” Osytha explains, shrugging off the coat. She’s left in her shirt, with the pale band of a strophium around her chest hinting through. Her eyes briefly muster up the strength to meet Momo’s, before instantly flicking away. “Et doesn’t ’ave to mean owt. Not if… not if tha dostn’t want et to. Um.”
 
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Momo glanced down as Osytha slipped her arm through his, and the sight of her resting her head against his shoulder brought a quiet warmth to his expression. He adjusted his stride without thinking, shortening his steps so she could remain comfortably tucked against him. Once again, there was no need for conversation. The simple closeness was enough. His tail swayed lazily behind them as they followed the stream, the soft sounds of running water and grazing animals making the afternoon feel almost impossibly peaceful.

The walk was beautiful, the scenery peacefully breathtaking. It was everything he could have wanted, and yet his eyes kept drifting back to her. It was as though the rest of the world had faded into a blur, leaving her as the only thing worth seeing.

The little clearing was every bit as secluded as Osytha had promised. Momo watched with quiet amusement as she wrestled with Guffers and the shepherd’s plaid, eventually breaking into a soft laugh when the dog was finally defeated by a combination of tickles and determination. He knelt to help smooth the blanket once Guffers had been dispatched with his sheep’s ear, occasionally stealing an apple from the pile their little Rainbow Dragon had gathered. The dragon itself settled nearby, seemingly quite pleased with the fruits of its labor, and Momo gave it an approving nod.

“You’ve earned your keep,” he told the spirit before taking another bite of his apple. The creature began to dissipate into tiny motes of spiritual energy, slowly fading away until it disappeared altogether, its essence returning to the Shroud.

Then Osytha began removing her gambeson and his amusement faded into something softer. He watched her carefully, not with the hungry appraisal she might have feared, but with an understanding of the uncertainty behind her movements. When she finally looked toward him and immediately looked away again, Momo’s ears dipped slightly.

He reached over and gently caught her hand before she could pull it away completely.

“Osytha.”

His voice was quiet, almost tender. He waited until she looked at him before continuing.

"It doesn’t have to mean anything you don’t want it to mean.”

His thumb brushed slowly across the back of her hand, his expression open and sincere.

“But I want to be here with you.”

There was no teasing in his voice now. No clever remark to give her an easy way around what she had just said. He understood what she was offering, but more importantly, he understood the uncertainty that came with it. Momo shifted closer, settling beside her rather than looming over her, leaving enough space that she could choose to close it herself.

“I don’t want you thinking you owe me anything because we kissed,” he continued softly, a ghost of anxiety creeping up on him. “If all you want today is to lie here in the sun, eat apples, and let Guffers steal half our lunch, then I’ll be perfectly happy with that.”

A small smile returned to his lips and the ghost receded somewhat.

“Though I suspect he’ll consider that last part non-negotiable.”

His fingers remained intertwined with hers, warm and steady. After a moment, he lifted her hand and pressed a gentle kiss against her knuckles before letting it rest between them.
 
“If all you want today is to lie here in the sun, eat apples, and let Guffers steal half our lunch, then I’ll be perfectly happy with that.”​

Osytha looks aghast. “He would nivver,” she declares, though her mock indignation can’t even hold out until the final word — and she’s melting into a silly little smile to match Momo’s.

That bit of mirth doesn’t last long, either. But the tenderness from it lingers on, watching him thread his fingers betwixt her own. How, when he dips his head, Momo’s hair shines like wandering summer clouds. Osytha is enthralled yet again by his careful nature; careful with his touch, with his words, with her. And she sees a reflection of her own fear in that.

Momo’s kiss to her hand lasts longer by the fleeting coolness it leaves behind. She’d be happy with that simple comfort, too; if all they did the rest of today was lie in each others’ arms, kissing and sharing morsels, in between giggling fits over silly, silly jokes, the kind without an ounce of meanness to them. The simple fact that of all the things Momo could be doing with his time, he wants to spend it with her. That alone is enough to make her happy.

But, should he want, it doesn’t have to be that alone.

“Et’s alreight, Momo,” says Osytha, with her fingers softly flexing between his down there on the blanket. “I’m doin’ this because I want to. If anythin’, I was afeared I might be pressurin’ thee…”

She moves. Slowly; rising, sliding her thigh across, until she’s knelt astride in Momo’s lap. One hand still entwined with his, while her other reaches up and caresses the side of his neck, coming to cradle in amidst those glorious white locks behind his head. Osytha’s heavy eyes flicker down the well-honed shape of his chest where it disappears beneath his black kosode. Back up, over the hollow at the base of his throat, over the fine point of his chin, the allure of his lips. Her eyelids droop down as she leans herself closer… and she’s kissing him. Softly, slowly, sinking herself entirely into the moment.

Momo tastes like apples. Osytha steals a little of it for herself; sweet, bright, and fragrant on the edge of her lips.

Held so close that Momo can feel the warmth as it all pours off her. Osytha’s mouth pulls back just enough to break their kiss, her brow tilting forward to rest against his. Steadying herself on him as a mad pounding from her heart rises over the cage of her chest.

“Tha’lt tell me?” she whispers. There against him, basking in the feel of his body all to hers; hard hips snug between her thighs, their laps nestled, bellies pressing. His flesh at her fingertips. “If I go too far, if I— if I try takin’ more’n tha want’st to give… promise tha’lt tell me, Momo.”
 
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His ears had lifted in surprise when she first moved, only to soften again as he leaned into her touch, his white hair spilling between her fingers.

For a moment, Momoshiro forgot whatever he had been about to say.

Osytha was in his lap, her fingers threaded through his hair, her warmth surrounding him, and her lips still close enough that he could taste the sweetness of the apples they'd shared. He had been so careful with her all afternoon, so mindful of every hesitation and every uncertain glance, that he hadn't quite allowed himself to acknowledge just how badly he wanted her. But when she'd leaned into him and kissed him of her own accord, something in him had finally relaxed. He no longer needed to wonder whether his affection was welcome. She was here because she wanted to be, and the knowledge filled him with a warmth that had very little to do with the afternoon sun.

His hand settled more firmly at her waist, drawing her a little closer as he returned her kiss with a tenderness that no longer quite concealed his desire. He followed the sweetness of her lips for another lingering moment before she pulled back, and he found himself chasing her just enough to steal one last, softer kiss. A quiet, breathless laugh escaped him when their foreheads met, his ears angled forward and his crimson eyes searching her face. Then she asked him to promise, and his expression softened.

“Of course I'll tell you,” he murmured. His free hand rose to cradle her cheek, thumb brushing along her skin as he held her gaze. “But, Osytha, you needn't be so anxious.”

The words came more readily than he expected. Perhaps it was the way she sat astride his lap, or the way her fingers rested against his neck, or perhaps he was simply tired of pretending that his own feelings were anything less than they were. His cheeks warmed faintly, but he didn't look away.

“I want you here,” he continued, his voice low and sincere. “I want you close to me. And if you want to kiss me, then kiss me.” His thumb swept gently over her cheekbone, and a small, knowing smile touched his lips.

“I promise I'll tell you if something doesn't feel right. But I won't have you thinking that every little thing you do is somehow too much for me.”

He paused, letting his gaze drift briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes. His tail had curled lazily around his side, but the rest of him seemed rather less capable of maintaining his usual composure. There was something wonderfully disarming about having Osytha so close, about knowing that beneath her shyness and uncertainty was a woman who wanted him enough to take the initiative. He had spent so long trying to make certain she felt safe with him that he'd almost forgotten she might want to be pursued, too.

“And for the record,” he added, a hint of mischief returning to his expression, “you aren't the only one who's been wanting this.”

He leaned in and kissed her again, this time without waiting for the invitation he had been so careful to offer before. One hand remained warm against her cheek while the other held her securely at the waist, and he kissed her with a little more certainty than before, allowing the affection he'd been holding back to show through. It was still gentle, still attentive to her, but there was no mistaking that he wanted her close. When he finally drew back, he lingered near her mouth, his nose brushing hers as a quiet smile spread across his face.

“I've been trying to behave myself all afternoon,” he confessed, his voice touched with amusement. “You are making it exceedingly difficult.”

His eyes flicked down to her lips again, and this time he made no effort to hide it. He pressed another kiss to the corner of her mouth, then along her cheek, before returning his attention to her eyes. His hand at her waist gave a gentle, reassuring squeeze, keeping her close without demanding that she stay.

“So, yes, my darling knight. I'll tell you if you go too far.” The endearment slipped out naturally, and his ears gave a small, betraying twitch as he realized he'd said it aloud. Rather than retreat from it, he smiled and brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face. “But I think you may be underestimating just how far I'm perfectly happy to let you go.”

He let the words linger between them, his gaze warm and unmistakably fond. Then he tipped his head and kissed her once more, slower this time, giving her every opportunity to draw away while making no secret of his hope that she wouldn't.
 
Gods, he— that goddamned hand above her hip, driving her to distraction. Osytha wants to feel him on the other side, too — wants to feel caught between those hands, helpless, his fingers digging their desire into her flesh.

When Momo gives her that little squeeze there, she can barely keep from trilling out.

And he keeps

kissing her

More insistent than before. Chasing, teasing, and oh, so delightfully eager. “I want you here. I want you close to me.” Telling her in every way he can. Can Momo feel just how hungry she is for him? In her hand sliding up his arm, in her fingers curling through his hair, in how she meets his kisses with her own. Fuck, in her small, unthinking motions of rocking back and forth against his lap. When did she start doing that…?

He leans into her again, and with “my darling knight” echoing in Osytha’s ears, their lips meet. Drawing it out, savouring it even longer than before. Her mind is coming unravelled — wanting this, just this, to let it linger as long as they can make it. And at the same time, so terribly ravenous for more.

She tries. She really does. But she just doesn’t have the strength.

Osytha eventually leans back out of that kiss. Her fingers trail gently down Momo’s chest, as she sadly shakes her head.

“Et’s no good,” she pants, little more than a whisper. Hands keep falling down. “This sark,” fingers clasp the hem of her shirt, “is jus’ gettin’ in the way, too…”

The cloth winds up to bare the inward dip of her waist, and the smooth mound of her belly, which hints at some firmer musculature beneath. Up a little more, and it clears the bands of linen bound around her chest. Higher, over her head; then she’s throwing the shirt aside without sparing it another thought.

With a tuck and pull, her strophium quickly follows suit.

She watches Momo as it unwinds. Watches where his eyes go, where his hands reach toward. What does he seem to like most? The outward flare of her hips? Gods, but his hands would feel so good there. What about the shallow bulge of her stomach, funnelling down to an aching crux still hidden beneath her braies? Or is he enamoured by her breasts? Some men like larger, true, yet nor can hers exactly be called modest, and she’s always been proud of their shapeliness. Soft, jiggly; influenced by gravity rather than dominated by it. Crowned by petite, pale pink buds.

What sort of look is in Momo’s eyes now, seeing her like this…?

“Momo.” Whispers his name as she leans closer, inches herself deeper into his lap. “Aye, tha hast been so well behaved.”

Hands slide up, running back over his chest. Feeling out his shape as she goes. Sliding under the haori, slipping it off his shoulders. Her breath warm and wet on the side of his neck, lashes fluttering low as she keeps taking him in.

“Poor thing,” she croons. And kisses him, tenderly on his neck, tasting him there a moment. “But tha need’st not hold back any more;” another indulgent kiss beside Momo’s throat, “not in the slightest.”
 
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Momo’s composure, fragile as the afternoon light through the leaves, quietly unfurled the moment she settled fully into his lap. He had spent his whole life learning restraint—learning to hold his tongue, to temper his heart with reason—but here, with Osytha warm and bare against him, every carefully placed wall began to soften. He did not grab, did not rush. Instead, his hands came to rest on the outward flare of her hips, thumbs tracing the graceful sweep of her pelvis with a reverence that bordered on prayerful.

"Gods, Osy," he breathed, his voice low and thick with awe. He tried something new, shortening her name in a much more familiar way than he had before. He hoped she would be alright with that. "You're gorgeous. I could spend the rest of my days just looking at you, memorizing the way the light lands on your skin."

His fingers moved first around her hips—slow, deliberate strokes, following the curve inward to the soft dip of her waist, then outward again. He gently squeezed the pliant flesh, feeling the weight of her, the warmth of her, marveling at how perfectly she seemed made to fit in his hands. Each touch was an exploration, a silent question of is this alright? answered by the way she leaned closer, the way her breath hitched in synchronized rhythm with his.

He kissed her neck softly, nuzzling into the sensitive spot just beneath her ear, his lips trailing a slow, possessive path down to her collarbone. His right hand slid upward, tracing the elegant line of her ribcage before settling beneath the swell of her breast. He cupped her there, gently, his palm weighing the soft heaviness of her, feeling her heart beat against him. Her nipple, already peaked and wanting, brushed against his thumb as he began to circle the areola with a feather-light touch.

"Sensitive here?" he murmured against her skin, not expecting an answer, merely delighting in the way she shivered in confirmation. He lowered his head, pressing a warm, open-mouthed kiss to the upper curve of her breast, then another, working his way inward until his mouth closed around the tender bud. He suckled softly, drawing her in with a gentle pull of his lips, his tongue swirling around the tip in slow, indulgent circles. He gave the other breast equal attention—not rushing, not favoring one over the other—lifting it to his mouth with his free hand, kissing, tasting, teasing the nipple to a tight peak before releasing it with a soft, wet pop.

"Didn't realize how hungry I was," he whispered, his voice entirely unguarded. "I-I want to touch every inch of you. I want to learn the shape of you, the feel of you, until I know you inside and out."

His hand slid down her back, following the gentle inward curve of her spine, descending to the full, plush curve of her backside. He cupped it, his palm molding to her flesh, and gave it a slow, exploring squeeze. He kneaded her gently, his fingers pressing into her softness, feeling the hidden strength beneath. He repeated the motion, rocking her subtly against him, letting her feel the thick proof of how much he desired her, but never pressing it against her insistently—just a firm, grounding presence that reminded them both of how long he'd waited.

Without removing his hand from her rear, he brought his other hand around to the inside of her thigh. His fingers trailed upward, skimming the sensitive skin just above her knee, then higher, until they brushed the damp curls between her legs. He didn't push inward—that urgency could wait. Instead, he found the slick pearl of her clit, sliding his thumb over it in a slow, circular motion, coated in her own arousal. Was that her clenching, her thighs trembling?

"Not yet," he said softly, inferring her unspoken plea. "I want to take my time with you—savor you." He pressed a lingering kiss to her lips, slow and deep, while his thumb continued its gentle, maddening circles. His other hand squeezed her rear again, pulling her more tightly against his lap.

He let go of her breast to cradle her face, his thumb brushing across her cheekbone as he drew back just enough to look at her. His crimson eyes, usually so calm and composed, were dark with adoration and quiet hunger.

He kissed her again, softer this time, while his hands continued their slow, reverent exploration—one firming on the curve of her hip, the other skimming the underside of her breast, teasing the sensitive skin just beneath the nipple. He was deliberate, unrushed, each touch a question, each squeeze a promise. He wanted to draw out her pleasure until she was trembling, sighing, clinging to him—until every inch of her skin had been mapped by his hands and his lips. And he would. Gently. Thoroughly. For as long as she would let him.
 
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