Eyes narrowed. Pulse quickened. Teeth bared as he felt the count thrum in his neck. In his ears. Hairs standing on end, and all the rest of him, ready.
Ten.

"What the hell are you doing?" he said it like it was an invitation. Mismatched eyes alight. Mess dribbled hand snatched up black fabric. Pulled it up to her nose as he grinned the more.

Fights over! Il Mago-

"Go on then," Eyes too wide with mounting thrill. "mangialo," he dared as the crowd jostled electric. Shook. Rowdy with victory and defeat swirling in the perfume of all the meat and spice. Cream and blood.
 
Aysel didn't know what he said at the end. All she heard was "go," which meant "yes" or "good girl." By the old gods, did she salivate when he brought his robe close to her nose. Overwhelmed by all the scents. Vinegar. Oil. Sharp cut of herb. The subtle sweetness. Peppery. Garlicky. Spicy and astringent, wild and untamed. She dipped her chin, opened her mouth, and showed him her tongue. Closing her eyes, scent led Aysel closer.

Her shoulders were still tight and straight, like the horizon at a beach, separating the sky and sea with a neat limned line. Only her head moved, nothing else. Aysel's tongue lapped up the dripped ricotta, whipped and thick, a small streak of snowy mountains stark against inky black cloth. She could smell sweat. She could smell him. There was something there, something more pungent than the oils and the grease and the sugar.

Opening her mouth wider, she tested, grazing her teeth against the back of his hand, her top teeth closing down against the fabric. When she opened her eyes, they shot towards his. More pressure against his fingers, keeping his offering of messy cloth firmly near her mouth.

"Ew, what are they doing?" A voice that didn't bother to whisper cracked her concentration. "Disgraziata."
 
Holy shit.

Nudged his bones against her teeth to feel all the weight of the bones behind them. Stupid grin split wide across his oil dribbled, cream speckled face. Eyes wide and wild as all of him coiled up beneath her, just hovering there.

Breath swirling. Heart pumping. Lips licked, and mouth watering.

Some fucker's voice.
"Dizgraziata."
​
His eyes cracked impossiblly wider. Gaze snapped to the bastard. Other hand whipsnapped to the plate. Grabbed up and flung it like a disk. Hard edge went CRACK against his face.

"Vaffanculo, coglione!" Diaz snapped. Whole body up on his feet as he twitched to threat against the fucker. Dared him to say another word. "Split your god damn mouth open you say another fucking word."

A few around the guy tensed up. But looked more wanting to get out of the way than join the trouble. The first fucker held his nose. Blood streaming from his hand.

A sharp whistle from the counter. "Ey, sguardo dipinto," Vincenzo called, big bellied and dark mustached with his wise old eyes beneath his salt and pepper curls like laurels about his shiny bald crown. "You ever want another assassina, you take all that outa here!" a scoot scoot of hands, half full with a sliced open sandwich roll. Didn't seem all that bothered.

A click of teeth from Diaz. Looked down. Quirked a brow at the girl. Aysel. "Let's get out of here," grabbed her up by the wrist, and pulled her toward the door.
 
The wooden plate was thrown perfectly, flying over the heads of others to hit its mark. Right in the man's face. He clutched at his face, cursing in that pretty language. It could have been incoherent jibberish for all Aysel knew, and still the cadence of the words was pleasing to the ears. Aysel let go of his hands, leaning back in her seat, a guilty look in her eyes. She watched the wooden plate clatter to the floor, looked up at the man who made her sandwich, breaking up a fight before it could begin. No one rushed at them. They were outside the ring, not in it.

Shame. Aysel liked bar fights. It felt good to punch those who tried to punch her first, to watch their eyes widen in surprise. Much like hers did when he took hold of her wrist, pulling her out of the seat. He was strong, but as strong as he looked. She remembered the shape of his forearm, how the width narrowed to his hand. Aysel knew she didn't look strong, but she was. He was stockier than she was. If she didn't want to follow, she could have dug her heels in at any moment.

But they were at the door, going up the stairs, passing through before anyone else could crowd the steps. Another door, and they were near a small wall with a large mirror and a large painting of a countryside with a stone cottage amongst flowers. Young women in beautifully bright dresses were fanning themselves, rosy pink and shiny turquoise. They looked over at them, then back at each other, continuing to whisper as they fanned themselves with fanciful fans designed with floral blades and red or green ribs.

"Where are we going?" And more importantly, "And when are you going to tell me your name?" It wasn't right to follow after a stranger even if it was fun.
 
Mismatched eyes looked back at her. The sour smell of sweat. The coppery tang of blood. And all the bouquet of fixings there with the yeasty sweetness of bread more and more distant with each step.

Eyes trailed the fans fluttering, then dart back to the mirror. His robe was a mess. His pants, not much better. Just laughed about it.

"Haven't thought that far," he confessed. Crooked his brow at her second question. Still felt the sink of her teeth about his finger. Squeezed tight about her wrist in a way that made the skin about his knuckle feel fat as a sausage ready to split. "When there's no one else listening," he said with a huff of a laugh. Let go of her wrist and moved across the sun drenched parlor.

"You said you aren't from around here?" he asked as he moved to the door that would take them outside. "How'd you know about the Impasta?" he asked with a cocked brow. Stepped out into the blue winter day. Eyes on a swivel as he held the door open. Shivered, and pulled his robes a bit closer to his chest. "Not to mention Arturo's meatballs," he said with a chuckle as he glanced back to her. Steamed breath swirling about his lips.
 
Aysel took a whiff of the air. He was telling the truth. He had just gotten up and left. Why did he take her, though? Didn't matter, because he would give her his name. Did it even matter now? Why did she follow after him? Only for a name? That couldn't be a very good reason to follow someone. Her hands hung limply at her sides before going outside with him. They stood off to the side. Aysel did her best to sneakily wipe her filthy hands and greasy fingers on a loose sleeve of his robe before he tightened it around himself.

"I followed my nose," Aysel told him with a neutral face. "Both times." She had walked into the restaurant, but the cheese and pasta hadn't made her mouth water. But before she could leave, she wasn't having much luck reading the menu anyhow when she caught a whiff of something good. Something spicy. Something meaty and juicy. Following her nose down to the secret sandwich shop and fighting ring was easy. No one stopped her. No one gave her any looks. There weren't any bodyguards.

"I got the meatballs because I don't like zuchinni or eggplant. I also do not like arugula. Too much of their menu has vegetables. But no sweet potatoes." Aysel looked offended all over again, shaking her head. She looked at him, pricking a brow of her own. "Why don't you wear a coat?" She gestured to her own dress. "Or wear many layers? I am wearing five. I feel hot instead of cold." Aysel bragged, puffing out her chest. Even the cold winter air couldn't stop the heat in her body. She felt it in her chest. She felt it in her stomach. Buzzing with heat, the sort that would have had her flushed if she realized it.

The wind blew more cold air against their faces. Aysel's midnight black hair fluttered about her somber face. A strand got stuck in her spikey eyelashes. Now that her hands were cleaned enough, she took hold of her hair with both hands, brushing through it with her fingers before using a piece of ribbon to tie it into a short ponytail behind her head. She pulled at the end of her ponytail, making it as tight as it would go. Aysel turned her face back towards him, frowning deeply.

"You look cold."
 
"Sweet potatoes?" he asked. Not really sure why that, of all the details, stuck out. The warm colored root, with its pink flushed skin, round and plump and so oddly meaty. "You look kinda like a sweet potato," he said through narrowed eyes. Her nose, just rosied enough by the cold, and her blood rushing to warm it. All draped in drab earth tones. Tangle of wild hair like a sprawl of roots in rich soil.

"Why don't you wear a coat... I am wearing five..."
​
Smelled the tangy waft of sweat as she fanned her hair about. Pouring out of the folds of her coat and layers. Could swear he saw steam coming off her. Wanted to smell it.

"You look cold."​

A click of teeth as their feet stepped across cold stone ways. Head jerked away as he stepped aimless. "Because," he said it so matter of fact. It left no room for anything BUT the truth. Such was his flawless thinking. Cleared his throat when he realized something. "Too much clothes, dulls the senses," Smiled like he believed it. Despite all the goose pimples prickling his flesh. Huffed a breath. "And I'd rather be cold, than a cooked up pink sugar spud," he stuck his tongue out. Teased a sound out. Breath all swirling like a beast's about his teeth.

Tucked his arms into the sleeves of his robe. Noticed something. "Hey," eyes flicked to her. "You still owe me," eyes narrowed and a smile sliced across his lips. Nothing there behind it, other than that idea. More the memory. Of the bite. The cream. The meat. Spicy and hot with all the right sting.
 
“That’s ridiculous,” Aysel scowled. “I look nothing like a sweet potato.” She kept following after him, a half step behind so he could lead. The dark stone path had pieces of light reflecting moonstone tucked away in the corners, illuminating the path before them. The buildings around them were tall, three or four stories high. Even though they walked in the shadows of the buildings, the moons above still had the glittering moonstones light the dark path. There was no need for lanterns here, the darkness was dreamy, even against the biting cold.

Her eyes narrowed at his tongue. Was he making fun of her when he walked around in a dirty robe and with a feral look? Mutt. She thought. But a strange way to think. He was human, not like her. But if he was like her, he’d be a mutt and she purebred with proper training. Mentor Maria made sure of that, only the best for Aysel so Aysel would perform her best. She wondered if her Mentor was at the room now or if she was still gone, still on the hunt for a spell. Usually whenever her mentor was on her spell hunts she would be gone for days. Aysel hands turned into tight fists.

“If I owe you, then what do you want?” She raised a brow. “I will not give you my ascot.” Aysel warned, pointing an accusing finger at him. She had saw the way he looked at her neck moments before.
 
A rumble from his throat as he kept his eyes locked on her as they stepped through a pathway of stars. "No, you can keep that on," the words rolled on up and out from his gut. A little warmer as they moved through the shadows between buildings. And he felt warmer already. Draped in the mantle of his Holy Menase.

Pulled his eyes away. Kept on, wandering, aimless.

What did he want?

"What's wrong with sweet potato?" he asked. Almost offended. "Its sweet. Warm and gooey when you cook it," he felt his face warming at the thought of it all steamy between his mouth. "Squishy, and soft" laughed. "Bit of butter and salt?" fingers to his lips smacked with a smooch. "Perfection."
 
A large gurgled growl echoed between them. Aysel flushed, cheeks blood of the mother red. The cold wind licked at her warmed cheeks, like a loyal dog nuzzling the hunters hand. Aysel licked her lips, mouth full of drool, like a dog anticipating food scraps from the table. Walking the markets, she hadn’t seen any sweet potatoes. When she asked about them, the shopkeeper asked if she meant Northern potatoes which were red and sweet. They didn’t have any, but he did sell her zucca, instead. A pumpkin. The closest thing she could get.

And if it tasted half as good as a sweet potato then there was no way she was going to share that with anyone. That was hers! Her food. Aysel had to swallow again, face fierce, ready to bare teeth to horde her stash of imaginary food from this stranger.

“I am not squishy and soft. I am hard and strong.” She glared at spirit eyes, stopped dead still, hands on her hips. “You are clearly hungry. You want food? Dessert?” Me? Aysel flushed. She wasn’t sweet. It was good she didn’t say it out loud. Her nose got a good scent of something. “Food stall.” Aysel decided, then paused, suddenly perturbed. “But if I buy you more food, then I do not owe you, and you will leave.”
 
Diaz stared at her a long moment. Too long. Arms crossed about his belly, hands tucked against his own flesh. A click of teeth. "You smell anything worth eating?" He asked with a wildness in his eyes. Stepped too close. Bent toward her. Sniff sniffed about her hair.

"Looked like you wanted to eat me up back in the Impasta," got a shiver down his spine just thinking about it. Still felt the sting on his knuckles Smiled just a little wider. "You are just like me, aren't you?" He asked. Eyes on that mouth of hers. Close enough to feel the warmth burning off her. The heat.

"Always hungry. "
 
She narrowed her gray eyes quizzically. Aysel was still, looking into his eyes with a certain logical calm. He came closer to her, taller than her, wider than her, colder than her. But in his pupils, as he continued to speak, she watched her own eyes mirror his. She was always hungry, so hungry she couldn’t eat. Unless… unless it was him, then her tongue felt wet and her stomach hot, blood rushing in her ears, eyes all over him.

Was he offering? Was this a test? Should she resist and then get a better reward for it? As Aysel considered her options quietly, she wondered over just how much she could have. Right now, not much, people could see. But if she didn’t move now, then later there could be nothing. Biting her lower lip, Aysel took a step forward, now up against his chest. His heat was overwhelming, she could hear his heart beating, pushing hot blood out into his body.

“Almost like you. I’m am better at courting.” Aysel whispered. “Better at taking what I want.” And what she wanted right now was another bite. So she took one, a nip to the exposed part of his neck, the soft skin before it stretched out to his chest. Her warm lips molding against the shadowed crevice, teeth pinching at the skin sharp and controlled.
 
A sharp toothed smile split wide across his lips as she pressed her weight.

Soft. Warm. Firm with muscle. Under all those layers. He cooed. A low sound that stirred up from the base of him. All too much delight.

She smelled untamed. Like a thing too soaked in the sweetness of hard won sweat and bitter pumping adrenaline to ever get rid of that most sacred scent. Blood. And a good bit of spiced tangy tomato and chili pepper. Made her all the more tasty.

...I'm better at courting.... better at taking what I want.

"Hoah," he sounded as her teeth scraped against the tender part of his neck. Head turned dizzy with the warm red swirls of heat that stirred about the edge of his eyes. Like so much smoke off a fire, let loose by the poke of burning log. "Better?" he choked back the sound. Cheeks flushing red. Liked the sting of her teeth against his neck too much. The snip-prick of her canines and incisors.

His hands thumped hard against her hips. Squeezed. "Who said anything about wanting you?" Mess streaked robe slipped off his shoulders. Hung loose about exposed skin, prickled by the cold air. Every little goosepimple stood up to beg the girl, Aysel, for more. Still hungry.

But if the cold bothered him. He didn't show it. Still felt steaming with her against him.

Fingers splayed wide about her bones, pressed between all the pads of her clothes. Her red kerchief tickling the swell of his chest. Her woolen coat, scratching against all his exposed skin. He was a pyre burning up.

"Aysel,"
 
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Many flinched, most trembled, and more often than not, she was reprimanded. But Spirit Eyes embraced it unlike others. His robe fell, exposing more of him to her. His skin was warm, made all the more apparent against the chill in the air. Misty breath wafted between them, like smoke from the blazing fires in both their bellies.

"You don't need to say anything," Aysel mumbled against his hot skin, lapping up the taste of bitter salt, getting a tang of sweet at the very end. "I can smell it." A smile of sharp teeth nipping at his collarbone, standing up on the tips of her toes to leverage her mouth better against the line of him. She licked the little bites, tenderizing his skin, then soothing it with a long swipe with the flat of her tongue, finishing it off with another bite against the ridge of a bone. Like a dog, gnawing on a treat, but with her front teeth.

"I can feel it." She promised, even through all her layers, she felt his hands on her hips, anchoring her against him, all at once keeping her at bay while holding her close. Indecisive, even if he said her name like that, Aysel was used to being held close, to have hips pressing against each other, the hottest part of her against the hardest part of them. So then why didn't he do the same despite saying her name like it was worth her weight in sandwiches?

Her mouth watered. Her hands caressed down his neck, over the length of his shoulders, admiring him like he was some show dog. To her, he was as pretty as one. All of his scars beneath the Mother and the moons, crisscrossing and mismatched, some light, some dark, some long, some short. Fingertips danced over the rosy, round base of his shoulders before going back to his neck. Then up, up, up... thumbs pressed against his cheeks, fingers firm against his jaw, palms cradling his chin. Aysel looked openly at his lips. Wide and big and plump. A thumb stroked against the scar.

"You have a pretty mouth." She observed. It was entirely unlike hers.
 
Damn and be damned.

He could feel his heartbeat at the very end of his finger tips. Pulsing and pounding against his bones and nails. Her words swirling across his skin in excited gouts of steam.

Breath sprayed and spread and run over the slope of his neck. Across his shoulder, and down his lines. So many hints and teases to thicker feelings. Beads and drops and trails. Rivers and streams and waterfalls pounding and churning against rocks.

You don't need to say anything, ​

Fingers still wrapped tight as she gnawed and smelled. Pull pull of her long nose had him pull pull with his own wide and flat sniffer. Deep, mouth watering breaths. Come the bites and the nibbles. The sweet, stinging sink.

I can feel it. ​

Lips smacked. Tongue clicked. Heavy and swollen as she went on tracing and trailing and exploring. Snatched him up, easy. Squeezed. Had his breath spill out. Thumb ghosted over velvet of his lips. The edges of his scar.

You have a pretty mouth. ​

"Ombre, portatemi via,"

A shiver down his spine. A twitch. Surge. Crash and spill. Wet mess. Musk. He chomped her pretty pink lips with a clumsy, shivering, pitiful bite of a kiss.
 
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