The response felt calmer, settled down. Even used the word fun, amidst all. He hummed thoughtfully to it, watching as she drew back a touch with some newfound spirit. And alarm, which bade him glance down at the front of his holiday tunic. That being, whichever he had elected the least faded and as such plausibly presentable. It was a party, after all.

“ Oh, no. “ He remarked, deadpan. “ Red on green — you’ve made me too festive. “

The spell of a dandy’s outrage broke into a lopsided smile, wrinkling the edges of the eyes. The arm looped about her shoulders adjusted, an absent brush of comfort that’d settle by her neck. His head tilted as he appraised the sorrowful stripes in the paint upon her cheeks.

Marked both of us, have you not. Two messes. And a grin, infectious, threatening to transmute his perfectly pleasant expression into something similar. That twist of the lips and narrowing of eyes like they knew something, together.

“ How did you imagine it’d go? A whole spectacle, with family. “ He asked, unable to keep a relieved amusement from his voice. In my Father’s house, events featuring relatives were a guaranteed bloodbath. “ Plenty eventful to my mind, and that is without taking into account the whole lot of your kin I’ve got to meet. For which— “

A cursory glance traced the trees and the people meandering betwixt them, like he should’ve sought familiar faces. For effect.

“ I’m loathe to admit I’ve already picked favourites. “ The haughty cock of his head betrayed the jest, though in his heart of hearts it was no contest at all. The pretense fell from him swift therein, revealing solemn skin. A lower tone.

" It has been lovely, Farren. " He thought to thank her then, for all the gifts she should've bestowed upon him, but the words caught somewhere betwixt his heart and tongue. She must've known how he felt, surely, the lot of it in the caresses and the glances. Fond.

" Never a dull moment, with you. "
 
No grand declarations, just presence. His was a steady hand in contrast to all this ache she’d forgotten she carried. And with him beside her, Farren managed to pull herself back together. To breathe deeper. To smile again. The confrontation with her father, she folded away like a letter, something for later, when she could collapse in the safety of her own space. When she could handle this old grief like a worn stone. The edges gone. The weight still ever-present in her pocket.

The next few hours passed gently, like the hush after a storm. They meandered through the grove together, speaking with kin and companions, laughing and crying over shared stories, blessings, and hopes for the new Spring. A happy tiredness eventually settled into her bones. Theirs had been a long day, and no matter how much she loved her family and the friends she hadn't seen in a year. They were a lot all at once.

She had just let out a second yawn that was too large to politely hide behind her hand when a warmth pressed to her shoulder.

Turning, Farren blinked in pleasant surprise at her Oba, whose weathered hands slid down and gently took her own.

“Anya,” he said, his smile creasing familiar lines in his face, “your Ona and I were so glad you could make it. She’s missed you something fierce. She may have a harder time saying it than I do, but then again, I'm no stranger to speaking on behalf of wilder things like you Bell Keepers.”

He gave her hand a small squeeze. “But I see you're tired, and you’ve had a long day of traveling and a longer one tomorrow. Head back to camp. We’re nearly finished here. You need your rest.”

Farren looked past him, to where that white wolf still sat watch in the center of the grotto, her Ona, surrounded by fellflowers in bloom and a sea of red ribbons swaying above her. A rushing gratitude swelled in her chest, threatening to overwhelm her.

Yes, Farren's ana may have been lost, but the woman who had truly raised her had always been within reach. Patiently patching the holes in her granddaughter's heart as only a mother could.

Farren nodded softly and turned back. “Okay, yeah, you're right, I would love nothing more than to finally lay down. What yurts are Aarno and I in?”

A strange flicker of sheepishness passed through her Oba’s face. He scratched his bearded cheek and a twinkle danced in his eye. “Ah… well. Because of the festival and all, there was only enough hides for one more yurt. And, uh, we didn’t know your companion would be joining.” A pause. “So, you’ll have to share.”

He waved off any concern before she could voice it. “But don't you worry, your things have already been unloaded from the horses and placed inside.”

Farren blinked. “Oh.”

A flush bloomed from her collarbones to her ears— sharp and instant, like a startled bird launching from its roost in a scatter of feathers and undignified squawking.

Recovering, she cleared her throat and turned to Aarno with an attempt at composure. “Well… it’s not like we haven’t slept together before—” Her words stumbled out before her brain caught up. “Wait, that’s not— I didn’t—”

She winced and turned to her Oba, panic blooming fast. “The Knights— what I mean, is that we're used to it— we’ve all slept together, so it's okay!”

She realized the disaster in that phrasing too. Her eyes snapped back to Aarno. “Wait, I meant— oh gods. Fucking eight above.”

Mortified, she groaned into her palms as her Oba erupted into laughter. A hearty, delighted sound that shook his shoulders as he clapped her on the back. “Of course, of course! Proximity only, right? Ha! Goodnight, Anya,” he cackled. “Sleep tight, both of you!”

And just like that, he turned and wandered back toward his wife, still chuckling to himself at the blunders of the youth.

Farren exhaled in a long, pitiful puff, dragging her hands slowly down her face. Then, despite everything, she laughed — breathless and a little incredulous. This bashfulness was… new. Foreign. She’d never been this flustered before, and yet here she was, fumbling.

She looked at Aarno, her grin sheepish but sincere. “I swear, I’m not usually this much of a mess." Another breath, irritated at her own awkwardness.

“Well, I'm ready when you are. Uh, to head back I mean.” Her fingers toyed with the hem of her sleeve before she looked up at him again. “And I just want to make sure, are you actually okay with sharing a yurt? I completely understand if you want your own space. I'm sure today has been a lot.”

@Aarno
 
They’d lingered so pleasantly to the late hour, friend and family, himself the guest, listening and watching. Despite his large mouth that spoke more often than not, always something, he rather enjoyed submitting to that part, adopting a comfortable sort of silence amidst the myriad chatter. Was there ever to be a next time for him here, perhaps he would speak and reveal more then. As acquaintance and new friend, rather than stranger.

A privilege won with patience and genuine curiousity, was he to be lucky. He kept the aspect of both as her Oba appeared from the night for the both of them, where they’d stood side by side fresh out of a conversation with one of her older aunts. The man proceeded to inform his Anya of a couple things that’d remained obscure to him until now.

He blinked, just as she did. More than the shared lodgings, himself having been an unexpected guest made him arch his brows with surprise. How— well, perhaps curious wasn’t the right word. Had she forgotten or not had the means to tell of it? Or something worse, perhaps.

He may have been able to keep his blank, perfectly professional countenance had Farren not proceeded to stumble spectacularly over her words. He stifled his laughter into a mere huff through the nose, grinning if not half as wide as her Oba did as he assured her in parting. Himself merely nodded, giving both his thanks and farewell to the man as he went.

“ Of course. “ He shrugged, tugging at the drape of the cloak he’d adjusted about his shoulders in a way where it, at least partly, concealed the red stain about his chest. Lest people keep assuming she’d stabbed him. “ It’s like you said. We have slept together before. “

His grin had mellowed out to a smile and though he yet glanced at her fondly, it was more with a jester’s cheer than the hot desire from hours ago. He felt better for it, content and warm as a hearth did when it no longer housed a blaze. Taking a tentative step, he jerked his head at the way they’d come to the grotto and its wishing trees.

“ Down that path, wasn’t it? “

*​

He had spied them before, at the earlier stages of the festival, looming there beyond the feast and the fire where the Bell Keepers had danced. Deerskins and red decorations, bound with dyed leather and woven ribbon. Simple luxuries and meaningful detail.

Only as they’d begun walking back, liberated from the excitement of any which new discovery and new face, had he realized the weariness upon him. Even as they’d talked on the way, a light sort of chatter that should remark and reminisce on the happenings of the day, he’d felt himself settling down inwardly. Nothing like a door to step through at this point and tie it shut, to shrug out of one’s garments—

Or, well— the majority of them, anyway, depending.

His eye rowed the squat little accommodations, lips pursing as he sidled a little closer to her, arm touching arm.

“ Which one is ours, do you think? “ He’d barely had the time to ask it, when someone should’ve already picked on the implied cluelessness, recognizing their meandering approach in the night. A gesture beckoned, pointing out one of the yurts for them. And he’d smile and wave, despite what he felt was a grin about whom he on a closer distance recognized as one of Farren’s rowdy brothers from earlier.

In her wake, he ducked his head at the entry and let the canvas fall behind them. The dark of the night and its residual revelry drifted further away, perfectly muffled by the vault of hides about them. Just whispers as he let his eye adjust to he the dim light of a clay oil lamp.

Puffing out a breath, he tugged at the brooch fixing his cloak and loosed it in a pointed click.

" This might sound awful, but —" Finding where their packs had been set by the doorway, so primly side by side, he squat down to tuck the silver away. The cloak was made into a neat, thick square and tossed down on the pack.

" I'm glad the day is over. "

He spoke that past his shoulder, not maliciously. Relieved, maybe? An exhale left him as such, shape deflating a little as he made to take off his belt, gathering it to a tight coil and settling it on the folded up cloak. He pulled off his tunic therein, in a weary rustle, and stilled for a moment to inspect the red smeared about the chest a little closer, trying it with the pad of his thumb.
 
Reindeer pelts layered thick across the ground, their density muffling the sound of footfalls, inviting their bare toes. Embroidered linens hung along the curved walls, laced with whorls of red sinew thread stitched in patterns that curled like wind, like wolves, like fire.

A low table sat in the center, ringed with red cushions for ground-sitting meals. Beside it, another smaller vanity of sorts, built low and wide with a single stool, a horn carved basin for water it's only adornment.

A nearby rack of polished birch poles was ready to hang the ceremonial garb that Farren was still wrapped in.

But her fingers stayed as she finally took note of the singular bed between them. Pushed back into the curve of the yurt, where it overflowed with rolled pillows, sheep wool, and soft furs so plush they spilled over the sides in rumpled cascades.

It looked warm. It also looked like trouble.

Farren’s cheeks heated. Damn them. The immediate implication of sharing it with Aarno had her gaze snapping to track the competent shape of his hands as he unclasped his cloak, the brooch coming free with a click.

Stop it. She scolded herself inwardly, pulling her attention elsewhere. There was nothing to be done about it right now. Later. They could… tackle that later.

Hurrying her hands, Farren began to peel away her ceremonial layers. First unfastening the wide belt, shrugging out of the embroidered over-jacket, the shaking din of small bells fading as she undid the leather bands from around her wrists and placed them all along the racks.

His words in the silence pulled a chuckle from her, grateful for his levity against her own awkwardness. She felt too aware of how much space her body took up in the air between them. How many steps away did Aarno stand? Too few? Too many?

Rummaging through her pack by the vanity table, Farren produced a small hand-carved mirror with a stand, a wooden boar-bristled brush, and a glass jar filled with purple oil that smelled faintly of cinnamon and clove. “Yeah,” she grumbled wryly as she uncorked the jar, “I can’t exactly say that I’m sad it’s over either. My family is nothing if not meddlesome.”

With a sigh, she settled onto the stool at the table, comfortable now in her plain blue tunic and wool leggings. She caught a glimpse of him in the mirror, broad-shouldered and quiet as he moved, and for a brief moment, her fingers stilled. Her gaze lingered, before she caught herself and cleared her throat.

Shaking her head, she began untying her spirit bells, finally removing the black one that had been tucked against her chest like a brand, holding it briefly in her hand before setting it down with a soft chime beside the others. Then, undoing the braid down her back, she began humming contently as she brushed out her hair with long, languid strokes, working the knots from the day’s wind and ceremony.

She dipped her finger into the oil, slicked it lightly across the ends, then resumed brushing, the scent reminding her of nights spent similarly in the monastery, and a pang of homesickness settled in her chest.

“You know,” she said after a moment, “now that I think of it, I don’t remember seeing Davina at all?” She frowned slightly, eyes narrowing at her reflection. “But I know she’s here. I saw my nephew Etan running around with green dye on his face and no shirt on like a feral little beast.” Her fond laugh died. “You don't think she’s avoiding me, do you?”

@Aarno
 
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It was in the weave, properly lodged betwixt thread. He spread the garment before himself for a once more over, before folding it away to the rest of his things. Suppose if there was no salvaging it, there was always a redye — to brown or black, maybe. The latter had never been his colour, though, not like it had been hers.

Or blue. That sundress and the tunic she’d revealed now from under the furs of her ceremonial garb. Bells tinkled, the huff of brush through tresses there with her words. Turning, he met her eye through the mirror she’d set up, the remark about her nephew inspiring a wider smile upon him.

He shrugged one shoulder, coming closer to the vanity, hands busy with rolling up the sleeves of his white undershirt.

“ Why would she be avoiding you? “ From the floor next to the low table he picked a broad earthenware ewer that he assumed, boldly, had been set there with water for washing. “ Unless there is more than what I know. “

A little arch of the brow, prying, hungry for gossip as he poured to the basin. Modestly, so there’d be enough for her and tomorrow morn left yet. With the large pitcher back on the floor, he reached both hands into the water and bowed down to scrub his face.

“ It was a lot, last we met her. Perhaps she just— needs time? “ He tried as he straightened, dabbing his face and neck with a square of linen he’d found by the basin. Droplets plinked softly as he dipped it entire in the water and squeezed the excess off, meeting eyes with Farren. A bit assurance and a tilt of the head that was both fond and curious.

“ Cloves and— something. Cinnamon? “ He muttered, nodding at the purple jar. With damp linen in hand, he made to meander to the bed, peeling off the undershirt on his way. Distance and a turned back, cloth frumping as he tossed it down.

“ Winter scents. Or favourites? “
 
Farren's brush slowed.

Her eyes had snared a droplet as it chased the hollow of Aarno’s throat, slipping down the cord of muscle and disappearing beneath his collar. The skin there was darker, sun-warmed, and her gaze lingered a touch too long, drawn to the subtle tension at his collarbones as he leaned over the basin. Her jaw ached, tongue grazing the edge of a canine, a restless pressure she didn't bother naming.

“Right,” she murmured. “Time. I can wait." A breath. "I can be patient.”

But as he turned to leave, she reached, fingers closing around the linen just before it slipped from his hand.

Her thumb skimmed the back of his knuckles, a ghosting contact that jolted Farren straight to the gut.

And then he was walking away, back to the bed where the lamplight gilded the muscles of his back as he peeled off his tunic. She didn’t look away fast enough.

Gods, when had it gotten so warm in here?

It’s not like she hadn’t seen him like this before. The Order’s sanctums were for the most part, co-ed, which didn’t exactly leave much to the imagination. So why couldn’t she get a grip?

Farren dragged the cloth across her cheek, wiping away the last of the paint in an effort to corral her scattered senses.

“Cloves and cinnamon,” she finally affirmed, a little hoarse, trying to sound composed, but as she attempted to seek safety in retreating her attentions to the mirror— she paused.

Something brave and hungry, and perhaps, unwise, igniting under her skin. A primal thing that had been sleeping before, but now raised its head with singular focus.

She turned back to look at him, elbow planted on the table and fingers trailing absently under her bottom lip, a flicker of coyness glinting behind dark blonde lashes.

"Why... do you like it?” A beat. “In fact, I noticed you haven't brushed your own hair yet. I can fix that.”

@Aarno
 
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She affirmed, but didn’t respond. It rattled a curious tune on his attention, so unlike her usual, bright and effortless candor. Like something should’ve fallen amiss, tilted out of place just so.

The question managed to turn him to look at her, figure brought lower as he carefully fell to a seat on the bed, a bit of twinkle in the orange luminance of his look. Brows slack, corners of the lips turned to a faint smile, just about there. Teasing.

“ You’d do that for me? “ He asked, wiping at his shoulders, chest, armpits and sides with the washcloth. Absent, learned movement.

“ No one has ever offered. Before. “ A haughty incline of the chin, though flattered delight perched on the rest of his expression, the crinkle about the eyes. He leaned against one arm, hand sinking into the cloudlike softness of the mattress and all that’d been piled upon it. Posture relaxed, open and inviting.

“ As for the scent, yes— I do like it. Softer spices. “
 
Eyes that flared silver tracked the slow progression of Aarno's hand.

"Mmm, I would yes."

Refusing to be timid. Farren stood in one fluid motion, taking with her the glass vial and her brush. Steps unhurried as she approached with a swaying hip.

"I wouldn't have offered if I didn't want to."

Gingerly, she lowered herself to the bed. Handing him the vial as she maneuvered to kneel behind him. "Hold."

Finally behind him, she settled and took in the breadth of his shoulders, it was enough to make her hands itch. So much to touch. So much to dig into.

Farren breathed deeply through her nose to quell the urge, instead she hooked a finger around the curtain of his hair, idly sliding the tips of her fingers through the tresses.

"I will admit it's not out of any kind of knightly nobleness." A wolfish grin accompanied her chuckle. "In fact, I often have to stop myself from touching your hair."

Leaning closer to his ear, she reach forward and dipped a lithe finger into the oil he so diligently held for her, and dropped her voice to a soft croon. "Do say something if I hurt you, darling." As she began slowly brushing through his tangles.

@Aarno
 
It took some doing to keep himself from baring teeth in a grin when she got up without further preamble or having to be coaxed in some game, so decisive of a sudden. Sure in what she had offered. He’d have all of it, gladly.

For mainly his own benefit, he drew a deeper breath and adjusted on his seat, straightening against the bounce of the mattress as she joined him on it. Knightly nobleness — aren’t we both a little past that, now. By ourselves, in here, after all that—

The ghost of the denied kiss shambled up from its grave, a tiny haunting just enough to will him to stillness. New resolve, lest he cave beneath the whispers and the ministrations come from just behind his back. The weight of her there, comfortable just as they were, his look tracing with magnificently unflickering composure as she dipped a finger in the fragrant oil.

Said such simple things and yet— What even was this, now? His breath held tight in his chest, even as he kept his pleasant expression and stared at the walls around them, not hazarding a look past his shoulder .Let her work without a single disrupting fidget, transmuting knots to silk. The linen clenched in his hand, forgotten.

“ I will. Dearest. “Though he turned not, the sound of a daring smirk was there in the remark. He made a valiant effort at easing to the sensation of what she was doing, shoulders sagging, enjoying it all for what it was. A favour.

A gesture to itself.

“ One should fancy getting used to this — “ He started again to the soft huff of the brush, the silence of cloves and cinnamon. A sort of dreamy quality in the trailing off, like he’d forgotten what he’d meant to say. All of it — the whole day, in truth, but the words were so many he hadn’t it in him to begin such lengthy praise.

She knew all of it, did she not. What he did manage, through a tired haze, was given in a lower tone. A mutter, not quite a whisper.

“ Gentle, undivided attention. “
 
Farren couldn't fathom where this feral wickedness had started. From what corner of herself it had slunk from, this thing with languid smiles and sharper teeth. It had prowled up from the dark and pressed itself against her skin when Aarno let his voice go velvet and mocking, when he met her kindness with that maddening spar of cheek.

It had always felt like an invitation, a game between them. A grin. A parry to laugh and meet in kind.

But now?

Now, it curled possessively beneath her sternum, made her fingers twitch with the ache to seize that smug little smile and devour it. To press him down and kiss it right off his mouth until he forgot how to be clever. Replaced his snark with a wilder urgency.

The brush slowed again. Then stopped.

Farren’s hand left his hair and slid deliberately up the side of his neck, tracing the heat of his skin with the backs of her knuckles. She cradled his jaw from behind, fingers splayed just beneath his ear. Tipping his head until she caged it against her chest with little pressure, her body curving around him.

His hair smelled like cloves and her oil now, hers. A scent she’d marked him with. She could feel the steady rise and fall of his breath, the thrum of something restrained beneath her fingertips.

Her face dipped lower, her cheek brushing his. Her lips close enough to almost kiss the edge of his ear. The weight of her voice fell like a darker kind of invitation.

“Is that what you want?” she purred. A pause, breath stirring his skin.

“For me to be gentle?”

@Aarno
 
From the lull, he was pulled back. First in the figurative as for her sudden stillness and then, in quick enough succession, quite literally. The touch that’d boded a myriad of things, trailing up his neck, grew different by the time it landed proper. A stark contrast against everything she’d been thus far. His lungs let out all air as he surrendered, brought lower, braced against one elbow.

That familiar little ripple coiled within his chest. Excitement or affection, anticipation? By some miracle, he managed to keep delight from his face, feigning the look of prey frozen to attention. Stone faced, eyes alert as they trailed the shape that leaned closer.

He kept his talents to himself, not daring to row past the skin touching his, leaving danger and all mystery unspoiled. They’d been this close before today, but this was— infinitely different. The words rumbled out of her and his exhale had a shudder at the end, any response delayed by three breaths. Audible suspense. Gentle as she was capable of, did he want it?

Yes? Lies.

“ No. “ He responded, sounding strange to himself for how much he meant it. The deadpan aspect fell away, replaced by a smug quirk of the mouth and narrowing of eyes. He dared tilt his face, the edge of his mouth hovering just out of reach of her cheek. The hand that wasn't clutching the vial she'd given him for dear life, took her wrist, like to keep her gripping exactly as she did.

" But do you care what I want? "
 
“No,” Farren said, unapologetic. Her other hand came up and whispered a finger down the blade of his nose. “But I like hearing you ask for what you want all the same.”

“Especially,” she murmured, brow creasing with something tender as she mapped his features, “since I wasn't sure if you knew how to want soft things, Aarno.”

The feel of his name on her lips made something in her pull taut.

Then the silver flames of her eyes dropped, searing a slow trail to his mouth— that flippant, teasing thing. Her own grin curved wide in response, flashing white teeth like the unsheathing of a blade.

“Now, don’t drop it,” she warned, glancing down at the vial still clutched in his hand. “Or I’ll be thoroughly cross with you.”

She shifted her grip. Her fingers pressed firmer against his jaw, thumb just beneath his cheekbone, and tilted his face up.

She would deny them no longer.

Her lips met his with slow surrender, her own hair falling forward to shroud them in silken wheat.

The hot press of her tongue traced the seam of his lips and she swallowed his shuddering breaths, claiming his mouth in a way that didn't yet need teeth to be hungry.

He tasted of salt and cloves, of something that curled deep in her belly like smoke catching. An appreciative moan escaped her as she sent the hand not anchored in his hair to trail down his throat, over the rise of his collarbone, fingers parting like water across his chest.

She pressed in, tongue slick, movements unpracticed but following her instinct to chase this heady desire with reverent greed, mouth slanting harder and demanding he yield.

All the world faded away except for the quiet pleading of whimpered breath, the shift of linen, and the faint creak of the mattress beneath them.

It had been years. Gods, maybe longer. Farren couldn’t remember the last time she let herself want like this. Not since before the Order. Before she’d turned all her edges inward and buried this yearning part of herself in discipline and duty and silver.

But here, now, with his mouth, his hands, the weight of him sitting so still and hers to touch— here Farren remembered that fervent wanting.

And she wasn’t finished with it yet.

@Aarno
 
Liked the sound of it, did she? Perhaps just as much as he liked the way her mouth moved when she spoke his name, staring down. With that confession something taut loosed in him, made his chest fall and rise easier, like with relief. Though being awkward with one another wasn’t the worst thing to happen when two were alone, he’d always yet dreaded it. And how effortlessly she should’ve tossed it off, whether by instinct or just genuinely being who she was.

He hoped it was the latter. Desperately.

“ I don’t want soft things. “ The whisper left him in a hiss, firm. It took everything to keep it that way, eyes luminant in the murk she cast over him. “I want— “

What weren’t mere things. He wouldn’t ask for it, having promised otherwise. But it was there, in the grip about her wrist, the brush of a thumb over her pulse. He was due a medal for the restraint he illustrated, not reading her fibers through it the way he often callously had.

Not yet. The suspense was too sweet. Not knowing more thrilling than the reverse. That look in her eye and the tone she spoke In, promising. Despite all his bare skin, he was feeling awfully hot for it. To her warning, he adjusted the vial in the palm of his hand, a little flourish as he bounced it up and caught it again with a soft plink of glass. Though he said nothing, his look was defiant.

Thoroughly cross. Pray tell of the things you’ll do— Spirit.

Just as he imagined she may have been gripping him tighter with threat, a little sample to humble him, the effect splintered. She was upon him like a spell, cast with hunger, a fall of her fragrant hair pooling on the lavish bed coverings about him. Lips against his, her hand on his chest that rose in shallow breaths, the moan—

It was too much. Against the rules they had played within, the gentle tugs and resistance, all the denial. It’s like she’d forgotten the word, given in to an ardent wish to just demand and take. Attention, mouth, body. He’d give, but the game would be done with.

Tongues touched, his own gasp for air there in that meager space. Oh, it was so over.

He was molten for her, the hand perched on the narrow of her arm flitting up to comb his fingers into her hair, a trail from the side of her head to the back, where it staid. Holding on, curling in. And he felt the wanting, all of it, how ardent and true like the will of something wild that’d finally dared inch out of its cage. It bled into him and that sensation he’d commit to memory, the way it prickled his skin and made the pit of his stomach coil with assured desire.

He let go, brushing a touch down her neck.

His breath was warmer, a little dry as he broke off the kiss to sink further down, off the support of his straining arm. Her legs were there, folded up comfortably where she yet sat and had taken to hover over him from. He rested his head on them for a beat, staring up at her with a twinkle much akin to mischief. A coy edge on what wasn’t exactly a smile, like such feeble pretense was to make his nethers throb any less.

He keeled his head, cheek brushing the soft fabric of her leggings, but yearning for more.

“ These need to come off. “ He remarked, almost petulantly. The sentiment was in the hot exhale against the inside of her thigh, the kiss he pressed there, his fingertips trailing the outside and gripping where the hem of her tunic lay.

Or so help me.
 
Farren bit her lip, giggling before she could stop herself— wild and breathless. There was something dizzying in the way he looked at her now, in the way he wanted her. It was akin to a spark catching dry grass. Acting on it had been a relief, all this pent up magnetic energy— but having it returned, well that was something else entirely.

She was reluctant now to give up even an inch of space between them.

One arm braced her as she leaned back, lazy with the kind of smug vanity only women and their wiles could understand. The other reached for him, fingers curling under his chin with a pert grip, thumb stroking the place where his lip met tusk.

“And you,” she said, silver eyes bright with mischief, “need to learn how to say please.”

@Aarno
 
He’d slipped further down, turning his front against he mattress to have his mouth better against her, claiming space and parts of her. The lounging she settled in gave the impression of yielding and for a fast passing two seconds he thought he’d won. So easily too, after all that spirit—

The grip beneath his chin stilled him, neck arching as she enforced her charge on his attention. His eyes rowed her face as if in disbelief, mouth rippling as he resisted the smile it threatened to curl into. Feigning thought, the indecision of a very serious man, he ran his tongue over the line of his teeth. A click, taunting.

“ Am afraid I don’t know how. “ He lied in a low tone, drinking in the devilish look about her and minding her grip none. So he allowed it, hands on her thighs as he pulled her diminutive shape along the couple inches it took for him to slip off the bed to kneel on the floor. For once he dared do it for how soft it was, earth covered with rushes and pelts, even if he’d yet feel it on his knees in the morning. What would that little ache buy him? Dare he bid.

He didn’t release her, palms trailing the curves of one leg, her vial deposited to the curve of two fingers. Meticulous adoration, like he meant to memorize it, a gentle inclination in conflict with the expression he wore. A put on facade of possessiveness, a jealous beast guarding a hard-won prize.

“ Please. Please please— “ He started in a multitude of different tones, like he was tasting a word made of foreign syllables. Not knowing what it meant, or choosing to render it meaningless, mocking, reciting a script. Learning, speaking out loud, without emotion or context. “ Please please, pleasepleasepleaseplease. “

He planted the last litany against her leg, before stilling to watch her. Haughty.

“ How do you want it, Syr? “
 
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