Or will true love prevail?

The young man sat between the tall blades of grass idly, staring at the sunset in the distance. He'd told himself that, when the last rays of sunlight had been snuffed out, he'd return to the Reach and attempt to sleep there once more. He'd gotten just slightly used to his new home, but when his body lay there so vulnerably, so open as he slept... He couldn't, not after Vengeance threatened him with death only days before.

He watched on, unsmiling, unblinking - passing the time as a statue.

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[narrow width=800]she hadn't made peace with it, before her fall; when she had been all alone, cradled and her soul calling to those unknowable names until her throat had been raw, until she could taste blood in her mouth and every fine, level line of her that remained was worn. that she had called the name that had forsaken her, just to hear it. looking for them all in the dark. for him.

for whoever he'd been.

but here, now, she hums as she works;
some half-lost melody taking stead of the unmoored, unsure way she feels in her skin. in her bones. in this world, and in this new-old heart. this ... unliving —

— yet there are foxtail grasses all around, and whorled loosestrife and purple lupine reaching heavensward with root and petal, and aėrith slowly, ever so slowly, collects herself; moves through the sunsetting hour while she pulls it all back together again, sewing and stitching at her tarnished spirit; plucking this flower here and this fern there through the torment cobwebbing in the doubtful places of her. neverminding it as much as she is able to will herself to.

and when she does not wish to find herself, so it is that she finds another; no matter that she never meant to find him, in the first place. she wavers at the sight of him all the same, though; fearless, with silverwood eyes shameless in the way they made a study of what sort of male he must be.

wondering.

aėrith dares to wander some ways nearer, rosebud nose canted at a tilt;
... but whatever had been meant as an airy greeting was staunchly muffled by her ( forgotten ) mouthful of late summer herbs.[/narrow]

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He'd never much cared for botany, which left him quite clueless when presented with such a variety of greenery. Though seemingly out of character, the man enjoyed the pretty things in life. He'd never admit to a flower being beautiful, he'd more so admire it from afar - far from judgement, far from prejudice. A brute like him couldn't possibly find anything breathtaking that was gentle and carved with such precision. You didn't see his father exclaiming at every flower patch that bloomed beyond their borders, after all. Perhaps that was why they lived in the Reach where it was dark and muddied, in a constant state of rotting. Perhaps they found it manly to not care for the little things - if only they'd look closer.

Appreciating that which might not be useful didn't mean he'd grown soft. He'd be the first to suggest a sustainable territory over a pretty one, function over beauty anytime. He was no slave to the aesthetic, merely an observer. Then again, there might be uses to things first deemed useless - a function hidden in cloaks of beauty, like women. They were beautiful, but also powerful, witty, diplomatic, charming, funny, dangerous - and if not useful in their interactions, useful in their ability to bear life.

No less beautiful was the ghost that flickered in the corner of his eye, prompting him to take a second glance. He failed to make out words from the muffled noises she produced, but was taken aback by her gentle features, her stature - so small compared to the titan. He wasn't immediately attracted to her, but more so convinced he should be careful with her, as if a mere gust of wind could blow her far away. The female Nightwalkers all nearly matched him in size, and none had inspired such reaction.

He only then realized he'd been staring for just a moment too long, just a beat too late. “Hello.” He rumbled with a hint of a smile on his face.

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[narrow width=800]perhaps it had been for an ever, the last time she'd known herself to be unsteady, a bit flustered.

where once  ( and often )  she was as cold wax, as numb and as burning as a silent nightmare, as poor and pale as an old ballad, as grey as an omen to the living, mother unmoored and never  ...  now, for a heartsbeat she flushed and paled at turns like sunfall seen through wind-shaken leaves. tail feathering at hocks that shivered softly; felt the breath flurry through her cathedral of aching ribs, nestle into veil-thin lungs so easily. it was everything but terror; for terror had gone from her in the dying and this was a reawakening of her her her, if but for a moment.

aėrith  –  aurëwen, andraste, all of it, none of it, never it  –  couldn't remember the last time that one had looked so plainly upon her as she was wont to do. had smiled in that terribly-knowing way, all patient good humor and eyes winking like dragonflies. that lurking, lazy amusement that perched on the edges of her lovely weaknesses. old and known and so achingly familiar. resented, cherished.

sure enough, she quivers and distantly, the feywife thinks she hears a spirit call her name. kunnhekku. — moonglow

she was glad for the greenery on her tongue, and how it hid the way her voice might have squeaked and wobbled had she not held anything there as she was now. surely this was why he gazed upon her so, for in neither lives lived had she wondered on something such as ... outward beauty. she had never wondered at whether or not whoever had been the moon of her old life thought she might have been beautiful. it never occurred to her to know; to ask.

it still didn't; even as her ears fluted back at this male's open appraisal of her, fair and equal that it was.

so, ignorant of it all she remained, while promptly setting her bouquet down and seating herself near where he lie; she took in the evening, while facing him were the winged shoulder blades, flared from the cresting furrow of vulnerable spine. skyburnt no more. then, lilting and lowish and lyrical:

"... hello."

that he might bear some dark intention towards her was something that did flit across her mind; but it was there, and then it had gone. her undaunted manner was not so much as for show, though, as some are ken to believe. there was simply ... nothing within her to find cause to fear for. nothing that had been or would be worse than what she has already faced and lost and gained, and lost still.

perhaps it was trust, then, and the peaceable sort; for her to sit almost at once in a silence that may have even been companionable, had they not been strangers.

trust  —  given as freely as an aster.[/narrow]

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He looked just a while longer - she rivaled a thousand sunsets. Was she a witch, carrying her bundle of greenery, here to enchant him with their scent? He was unsure of her intentions, much like she was about his. Despite moments having passed, they felt like hours. Were they to spend eternity together like this?

She lied before him, like a meal on a platter - had she been unfortunate enough to meet any other Nightwalker, she'd been eaten at worst and violated at best. Almight however, felt he'd already done both just by looking, as if he was unworthy to even lay eyes on her. He settled softly into a more comfortable pose, hoping to not scare her. She felt more like a prey animal than a wolf, and still she'd placed her trust in a man like him. Or perhaps she knew exactly what he was, and wished not to continue on in this realm. Well, he wasn't like he seemed most of the time.

“Should I tie you to a tree, lest you blow away?” He rumbled again, as gentle as his voice could sound - which wasn't very.

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[narrow width=800]though she doesn't smile openly at his resonant words, it was there; a hushed, inconspicuous presence that lingered just beneath lumine features yet heard more easily in her own: "would you be the one who holds me there? keeps me there?" the quip charmed out of her by something that has been forever at the will of something beyond herself; but finally she turns to him, eyes twinkling bright and venerable. "i am not yet so thin and pale that the sunlight will shine through me, mehtar — warrior."

— and one he must be, for all those great males seemed so made of such stuff. they knew the darkness of war and its many-mouthed tongues; knew that leave-taking, their returning less-than and missing skin and soul and bone and being. she is not as battle-broke, but is fragmentary all the same.

but she has withstood more than errant winds.

a shy, secret little elfin curl flutters at the corner of her lip. "and you, earthshaker  —  will the morrow cast you in stone, come dawn?"[/narrow]

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Her words, nearly as enchanting as her allure, spoke in ways he hadn't heard anyone speak in these realms. It seemed the Temperate was teeming with titans like him, Using language not as an artform but a means to an end. He was guilty, even of the abuse of it in some instances, but he knew how to play the role of a wordsmith quite well. Much like his father, he had both brain and brawn, a scary combination. Again, his father was a prime example. The truth was, the boy was terrified of him.

“Endlessly.” He answered suavely. “It shines with you, fairy-gold Eglantine.” He reassured, hoping he hadn't offended as that wasn't his intention. For a moment he pondered what she'd called him, though he could only imagine it was something akin to brute or monster or beast. Perhaps it had been meant as playful, but the man was rather sensitive when it came to what he was - what he was presumed to be.

Audibly did he blow air out of his nostrils, answering again; “One can only hope.”

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[narrow width=800]when he speaks of her, gilt and eglantine, she presses her argent eyes shut and turns from him; stifling the would-be merriment there against her dark lashline. when he spoke of stone, she is reminded of that eve with a titaness, with crags crowding all around them and for a moment she longs for that stillness, that silence. the restful, near-funeral moment. if only he  –  whoever he was  –  knew how much one did hope. would hope, if not for her lostlings that so needed finding; sent everywhere at once by the god that had sung and made them.

and then, after biting her lip over the question that chance and fleeting memory often elicted: "how, may i ask, did you find yourself in this world?" and if he believed in such notions, had he risen, as the lady leviathan had? had he fallen, like herself? had he been sent? had he been torn from the fabric of what he may have known before? had it left his soul skinned and naked and raw?

she watches him with quiet consideration, before situating herself more towards him; more readily to that which he might say.

but if he daren't indulge her, then she would not press for more.[/narrow]
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Her next question he had not expected, and was reluctant to answer. He hadn't told anyone of how he'd come to this world in a state of panic - how the sea had swallowed him and the sky had struck him down. He thought, for sure, he'd died a horrible death. Perhaps this was nothing more than the afterlife.

“Wet yet smoldering - tired yet born anew.” He answered. He'd been reunited with his family, though life had not looked up for him for quite the while. He had no friends, no one to turn to. Perhaps he didn't need it; he was strong enough on his own.

“Why do you ask? It matters little how we became, and more what we will do with the chance we've been given.”

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[narrow width=800]"perhaps," she wisps, answering the thought, rather than the words. "but i will wonder all the same."

and then he spoke of chances, and she stills; looks him in those eyes all searing, glittering grey and bolted through, the fierce dark face frowning like thunder. to her, his presence was massive, plain, and blunt, and it was all the reason more for her to rise from where she sat and draw nearer once more. confessional, absent-minded: "with the one that i have been given, i intend to find my children ... though they have been scattered throughout this realm," a soft sigh, heartrending, "and i know not where they wander."

for a moment, the silence between them is thick and full of soft wind, sun-drenched and slow. then, with that imp's delight flickering once more at the corner of her pale mouth: "but you are strong. what will you do with yours?"[/narrow]

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A curious one, he saw. He couldn't relate. He cared little for stories from the past; though listening made him understand others better, they seldom betrayed something he didn't already guess by himself. Though he didn't admit it, he was quite good at seeing past facades, past what people wanted to present themselves as. Thus, he also saw, or at least found, that the woman was caught up so much in her worries and her strife, she'd forgotten how to live. “I'm... sorry to hear that.” She was alive, that much was true, but she was living for a fetch-quest. What was to become of her with children found and well - at a certain age, they'd run off anyway. Unless you force them to stay with you, of course...

He scoffed at her question. “Funny that you -and I mean this in the most delicate way possible my flower- presume I had a choice in the matter.” He answered, in a tone akin to numbness instead of sadness. There was very little he could do about his circumstances in the short term, and unless some kind of God was at his side and decided to strike his father down and his whole forest ablaze, there was no one who could help him.

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[narrow width=800]the thought that her whelps might be more suited to whoever  ( or whatever )  had taken to raising them, had gone where she in a sense could not follow, was something that until this point she had turned her cheek to. she nearly blushed in her own shame; luna, nearly turned from the shade him and that pallid, perceptive gaze. but she holds, for it is something that she must make some form of peace with ... sooner or later, as every mother must. in the end, if there was any offense she took to either admission, it didn't cross her melancholic, musing features.

she might have continued; might have told him that her brood were not all she sought. and she might have sniffed in return, for she deserved no such delicacy as most believed. instead, as his voice snagged on something bleak, something already forsaken  –  something, in part, she could understand.

so, for a while, she says nothing; lingers with him in the quiet of the deepening evening. perhaps it would be some manner of comfort to him, moreso than any grasping, faltering words could be drudged up; for him to lean his personal plight against and allow himself to lift off the weariness that seemed to weigh on him so.  ... or, perhaps not.

all the same, though, the nightingale drew her wild bouquet closer to the pair of them, and after murmuring low, indiscernable noises to herself, plucked from her disposal a few nodding sprigs of  – "valerian. if ingested by its roots, it is sure to ... soothe what has worn thinly in one's mind," –  and if he found her offer paltry, she wouldn't take offense to it, either. nonetheless, she tacked on: "of course, seed of poppy might fare better, yet ... i have not had the opportunity of chancing upon any thus far."

with her voice now more tentative, the feywife couldn't help but wilt just a smidgen, fine-boned shoulders furling; so like the flower that she did not suffer easily being likened to.

there ought to be another way for her to help, no?[/narrow]

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Perhaps he'd gotten too real - too familiar - with the lady too soon, as silence washed over the pair of opposites sharing the same woe somewhat. The silence did not soothe, but rather make him rethink all he'd told and all he'd done in her presence. Though close physically, he could nearly feel the draft of a rift forming between them, back to the strangers they were moments ago. If she'd chosen to get up and leave, he would've understood why. The man wasn't much fun to be around in this state.

When she shifted, that's exactly what he thought she'd do - but instead the bundle of greenery that lay nearby was pulled closer. He watched attentively as she decided on something he knew little of, eventually presenting some that looked like any herb he'd ever seen and gave him a short explanation of her intention. A smirk grew on his maw without him realizing it. He'd heard of plants with such effects before, though had never used them - but to think the delicate flower knew such things amused him somewhat. “Healer of mind and body, I see.” He commented, hoping to cheer her up somehow by not refusing her offer outright.

“I can't say I've ever used plants to "soothe the mind" before.” He then said, bending closer to her and the greenery she'd introduced as Valerian. The sprigs bore tiny pinkish-white flowers that smelled like any flower he'd ever smelled. He'd almost say it looked pretty. He then looked at the woman, her eyes a slightly lighter shade of silver than his own - although hers seemed to sparkle like pearls. “Will you teach me?” He breathed.

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[narrow width=800]her breath is caught like the wings of a moth in the beak of an owl;
his offer and invitation, mundane, like tithes to her torn soul; held up to the lovely bones of aching solitude and its better judgement. his wan eyes are upon her, and for a moment she might have held the valerian to her breast like a sentimental favor; ears pressing away while something uncertain thrilled through her spine like a note shivering up and down like the strings on a harp.

"of course," her voice a thread in the dark, so strangely near to him. gauzily, shyness gathered around the nightingale, unfamiliar and also known. always.

to his entreaty, she shows the stormcloak how to unseam and score the woodsy root, and to join it with sprigs of lesser herbs. all that was left would be to simply ingest it — which she did shortly after with her half of it, coming to rest her chin upon snowshoe paws and eyes listless upon the darkening hour. then:

"peace of mind, i suppose, then," letting one argent eye drift up and up to him; having to tilt her head a tad to do so properly. "if your nerves are drawn thin, or ... if sleep does not come easy to you," feathering her tail to shawl about her haunches.[/narrow]

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He smiled truly, honestly, when she answered; voice gentler than a mother coo's and songs as she sung to her babes. He almost couldn't picture her one; the woman seemed ethereal, as if she didn't belong here; how could any male be worthy of such a woman? Even stranger was the fact she was alone, seemingly the only one searching for their offspring... He made a mental note to, if he ever encountered a child, ask for its parents. It didn't occur to him that he knew naught the woman's name nor her whereabouts if the time ever came where he'd stumble upon her lostlings.

He watched attentively as she got to work, copying whatever she did if she wasn't preparing for two, and carefully consumed the bundle once the time came to do so. The taste was bitter; he knew it as well as the taste of meat. A younger version of him had nibbled on more than one piece of grass and greenery in search of food when he was abandoned. It was a God's work that he lived to tell the tale.

He looked at her and then ahead, expecting to feel something by now. He lied down, listening to her talk. “Sleep never comes easy to me.” He admitted softly, his voice a low timbre. “The woods my kind inhabit reeks of blood and more than one unwashed coat - and it's so quiet, as if anything that dares enter dies somehow.”

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[narrow width=800]"that is why i wander. why i keep close the clutch of night,"  she lilts to his earlier confession, before letting her ribs bare themselves as she moves to recline upon her back; all long graceful bones and the flat muscles of her belly a tapestry beneath the skin, flowing into pale thighs and the tail that ever preserved her modesty. nevermind that she was now  ( more )  vulnerable, if she ever cared: "silence can be so much. too much. pining after it ... even when it presses all around you like an unwanted friend."

if not for her children that ground her, she would simply unhinge from the earth to reach into the very vault of the heavens.

the world seems to kneel to him, this savage-wild stranger; to lay itself prostrate at his glances and stillness. but then he speaks of how his hinterlands reek of rot  –  to which, with a soft sussuration of  "oh?" she condescends to sniff delicately at the air near his heavy foreleg. it was there, of course, but ...  "it is not so terrible, now." pulling away with a chew of her lip; bud of a nose wrinkling a bit at thought of what the roots of that very claim alone smelled like.  "being away from there agrees with you." and his lungs as well, she hoped.

her skin stirs with soul-shivers and gooseflesh, and perhaps for the first time she smiles, albeit a little senselessly. lets her lashes lie heavy to cheek as she allows herself to melt into the loam and moss beneath her when she muses: "i hear that the mountain air is lovely this time of year, as well. i would know." and if he'd ever be sent that way by his superiors, it would definitely allow him to breathe easier ... but she's loathe to speak into this reverie, more for his sake than her own. if quiet fled from his attempts to have any as well, then she hoped, too, that he would find some here.

not that it had to be with her, of course;
lain alongside him, strewn and listless as anything.[/narrow]

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He nodded solemnly at her words. Silence was as much a curse as it was a blessing sometimes. He preferred a soft background noise most, like a babbling brook or a waterfall in the distance. Sounds of life, of critters running about - wasn't that what relaxation was all about?

For a moment, all his movements paused as the woman presented her undersides to him - or, well, maybe not particularly him, but he was free to watch. He imagined the touch of her fur on his chin should he ever be allowed to place his dark muzzle on her chest - did it feel as silky as it looked? He almost didn't notice her taking a whiff of him, too enamored of her very presence. His large pointy ears slid back in heartfelt sadness at her words though. “If I left, I'd be hunted down 'till the ends of time.” He answered in turn.

The mountains. He'd been to the mountains before. He loved seeing the world from up above one of their many spires, looking over it like some benevolent God. But no, he was stuck under the thick canopy of the dying trees of the Reach and - should he ever die there - be buried underneath its lifeless soil. “Is that where you make your home, whenever not wandering?”

 

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[narrow width=800]

tagging this for formation points later on, ended up w her just talking abt it for now

---

she knows where he is without seeing;
as he speaks, she looks at him  ( or, she tried to look at him, through her momentary darkness )  and there's a near-conspicous tremble through the seam of her lips; a muscle quivering involuntarily somewhere within the lock of her thin hip. listening to the somber nearness of his voice and feeling the heaviness of his presence by her, pressing against her. there is a heartbeat that connects them and his blood is in her ears. he is close. closer than he should be; closer than she lets herself be. so her insides fold over themselves and curl into anxious, agonal shapes that makes her restive, errant, then  —  before her ribs meet the soft, loamy give of earth once more as he asks her of her spires.

aėrith nods, though she doesn't know what she nods at; but she's leaning up and up and up for him before those last words leave him and  "it will be" is a breathless crawl along that gloomy jawline.

and she does not pull away.

"my court will come again,"  heart hitching within her breast, eyes dove-gray with an old ache that resonates through more than the flesh. takes again the tarnished dream, holds it as hers once more. tries. "we will be wardens and wayfarers. we will want for nothing but risk and peril. and my children ..." wisping, wilting, "my children will learn of the world. they will name these stranger stars and the hateful dark between it all. they will never be without guidance. they will come into their own in the way they should have. as i should have. and i —"

—  was numb and lost and burning. faint, feverish; so intimate to whatever the eidolic gleam in his eyes had brought hers to glisten.

the silverwood creature stills and hushes; claws curling into that loam as she watches the redolent dark of him. holding herself there for him, away from him. every traitorous breath a petal, laced with longing for what she had lost and everything yet to be found. if found all her lost-things could ever be.

and she still hasn't pulled away.

he said he would be hunted, if he ever left his grave-hushed land and it was all she could do to not touch at the withered places of him; to pick him apart and return him to himself. to reach for him and feel for his heart, to pull herself into him just to know that he lived, just as she.

a little warble snags in the back of her throat as she blearily finds herself; her lungs bellowing in short and soft ways as she finally tugs herself back. back, looking at him in a wildling way — almost primal. almost pleading.

the prospect of his absence was at once altogether bleak;
but back she draws herself from the stormcloak, before she rips herself from her skin. before he can see into her, reach for her.

before she needs him to.[/narrow]

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But the stormcloak's heart had been broken long ago, when he was abandoned and left to fend on his own. When blood killed blood - the only blood that had cared for him, all hope for the world was lost. A world that allowed such cruelties was the one a Rache roamed, as if Hell could not follow life for they were already there. Living, breathing demons dancing together with angels they tried to tie down or eat, all the same.

He watched her and was taken aback when she grew closer and closer and - if only should he have bent his head, their noses could have touched. They both begged for the other to ease their pain, though neither was far enough gone to commit to their near sinful touch. Never once did his silvery eyes leave her shiny opals. She spoke of the home she'd built, once children found. Her vision was unlike the one the queen of the elk held, unlike that of his father and his own. Conviction, determination. It made her all the more beautiful to him. “But then, who'd be your guide?” His voice no more than a mere whisper as he leaned in closer.

Which was when she'd pulled away from the magic they'd created, and the warmth he'd felt being so close to her faded. No, he didn't want her to go and leave him like this. Was she more a witch than the angelic sylph he'd assumed her to be? “No...” He uttered drowsily, the herbs leaving him dizzy. A shaky step was taken by his front legs with no follow up, lowering him as he reached for the touch of her.

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[narrow width=800]pungent ferns rose around like incense;
he lowers himself to her and at his touch she goes gauzy-thin, unendingly aquiver as he wends her into his arms.

the fairylight crescents herself against him, bent-backed with a distracted, inward look, as though listening to some far-away thing that only she could hear. if his mouth found her breast the way it needed to, he would doubtless feel how harshly her heart beat beneath its bone like the staccato of an augur's drum. and if he listened, he'd hear the low, luxurious note humming from deep within her throat.  "no ... ?"  the voice is dawnlit, distant, dazed; an echo of thoughtless wonder.

then her hips, half-stilled beneath the weight of him, move.

molding up into those restless ribs of his; curling and pressing herself into his strength with a delicate, dulcet drowsiness. it's practically nothing, not even a ravishing; they hadn't truly done anything that was a true taking. claiming. only this languid writhing and hazy touches ... but it has her resting her brow against his temple anyways. shuddering and biting at her lips; panting in gentle, ragged breaths. coaxing at his tousled spirit.

her own touches are half-hesitant, reverential, featherlight  —  as if he meant something  ( he did. he does. )  "you don't f-feel this? feel me?"  feel them? pearlmade claws blunt along his stygian shoulders with unutterable tenderness; the nips at the corner of his jaw sheepish, seeking.

reawakening; weaving herself against him, for him;
over and over, with a rhythm indeed like the invocation of a spell.[/narrow]

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He wasn't sure what his plan had been - if there even had been one when he'd reached out for her. Truth was, the boy was inexperienced and presented himself as rather asexual. Even now, his tool of the trade did not waken as he accidentally landed on top of her. He thought it funny how, even with both of them standing, he could practically walk over her with only his belly dragging along her spine. Her wispy fur tickled his chest - so she was indeed not made of starlight and heavenly yarn, spun by the finest of spinsters. He ran his large maw through it, taking in her scent and warmth. She felt so much hotter than him, he noticed.

But his thoughts shifted as soon as she began moving in a way unknown to him, awakening a desire not felt before. He had craved for her touch, yes, but this was very different. His heart throbbed much like something else, a power dormant until now. He swallowed, unsure of what to do when she spoke words of silk and passion.

“I- I don't... I mean, I've never-” He stammered awkwardly.

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free to powerplay her a little if u need to ♡

---

it wasn't the stuttering that gave her pause, but the tentative weight that perched along the edges of his voice. not pulling away this time, the feé presses gently at him so that she may rise from her lounging. gaze listless as she takes the time to consider his words and hesitancy; dark lashes fluttering at the arch of his brow. her lips part, lingering just a divine brush away from his own, but for a few heartbeats she remains silent, still shivering a little in the hot darkness. finally, fluting her stout little ears back, carefully not meeting his gaze  ( at least, not yet ) :

"would you ... do me the honor of ... guiding you?"

after another moment, she allows her shy eyes to drift over the anxious line of his mouth and the new, unsure spring at his ribs.  "it is your choice, entirely. you would set the pace, and mine, and if you want to stop  –  even here, now  –  i will refrain from, ah ... pursual. if you truly want me to show you, however ..."  and here she lifts her mirrorbright gaze a cautious fraction, listening to his breathing,  "... i would make love all over you."  will, if he let her: she was looking at him as if her own heart's blood had left her.

"and i would take my time, and have you remember my lips."  her voice a slow, rich curve of infinite promise; timid, tender.  "if i am going to lose my soul again, then it is worth your bewitching it."

and if he only wish to lie plainly with her, throeless, then that was just as well. they could part, and he could ruminate over it on his lonesome. and if he wished for nothing more to do with her ... then so be it. the yearning would only tighten within her loins the further she forced herself from him; any dreams to come would be gone, off to hunt after his. she would lie awake as the aching consume her, leave her inhaling the remnants of his memory-faded scent that she took into herself deeply; revealing her longing to the night. now, she simply hooks her claws into the loam, steadying the trembling through her backbone; willing herself to be patient through all her wanting.

"it is your choice. your night."  even if he was all she desired this night; and, perhaps, many nights from now.

so she turns away from him, shifting herself so that her attention is on the sunsetting and not so heavily upon him. she understood that he might very well rather to share such trust with someone he knew, someone he loved  —  or, at the very least made one's pleasure a priority rather than chasing his own  —  she had wished for as much, but her first had been molded on false pretense and snapping, short-lived release.

she holds herself as still as possible for him, whatever he chooses, even when her pale coat twitches from the shivering of her skin beneath with the effort of thinly-veiled composure. he can't see that little, inconspicuous tears alight on her tears in her restraint. her arousal cloying even as she kept her tail tucked so closely about her.

kept herself from nudging with how it might help him sleep, or how he meant more than just the flesh, the brawn. tried to not wonder that she herself might be irrevocably undesirable.

but if he wanted this ... wanted her ... then she would wait for him to touch her in answer.[/narrow]

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God, was he a loser? Needing a woman to guide him during something as trivial as this? He felt himself flush a bright red at the thought. He supposed his father was better than him in at least one thing, for somehow the man had sired about half the wolf population of this realm by now. Shit - could this result in him siring some children of his own? WHILE THE ONES SHE ALREADY HAD WERE LOST?! Moons of wandering alone from a young age had left no time or room for a "talk" so truly he was clueless, despite how smart he thought he was.

"... i would make love all over you."

His breath got stuck in his throat and his heart stopped for a moment. Even he was not armored enough to resist her womanly charm. He... He wanted choice so badly, yet was so unsure of which path to take. He had had no control over most his life, and as she'd pressed herself against him he was nearly sure that it would happen again; a choice made for him, taken from him.

What did he want? He wasn't sure, but something else within him was. With her turned away and focused on something else, he moved wordlessly behind her with a tremble in his step and a shake of his growing member. He trailed his tongue across her spine. It was thoughtless, really, everything he did after having been given the choice. But he was done with unassertive carefulness. For a moment the glimmer in his eyes was akin to his father, though one who'd never carefully observed both Rache men moments before the act would never notice.

“Very well - teach me your lovin' dance.” He rumbled, a trace of doubt soaking the edges of his words.

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[narrow width=800]

haven't written this in like 2ish years so pls excuse my rustiness oof

---

his agitation was almost palpable; his indecision strong enough for her to lean against.

but then she feels him crowd behind her, and feels him trembling as his tongue licks a hot stripe up her now-stricken spine; the silver couldn't resist answering with a low-throated hum and a gentle lift of her hips, turning to look at him as her aching deepens in primordial shivers throughout her skin; thick heat smoldering in her belly as she felt a sudden, distinct melting warmth come with it. he seemed sure enough  –

–  but she reached for him all the same so that the brush of her mouth could try to ease the doubtful curl there.  "i want to see you,"  she murmured lowly, just shy of nipping at the corner of it again.  "please?" 

with his leave, she soon returned them both to the loam;
and when she'd coaxed him into lying on his back for her, so aėrith began.

first, she tended to his neck, soothing what she'd brought upon his dark jawline before worrying with gentle nicks into the hollowed columns of his gray-sewn throat; and her ministrations continued from the breadth of his great chest in bites that became incrementally more featherlight until, by the time she reached his coiled hips, her touch upon him was naught more than her fangs threading through the fur there in soft, diaphanous ways.

always she kept her attention tightly knit to his own; even if he dared not look upon her, she made herself a study of that ironcast face, drinking in the sounds that she made him make. anywhere that might cause him to arch into her was where she paid special mind to, with praises and more touches still.

but she was careful to keep him along that edge.

she did not want him finding his release so soon; and every so often she would lean away, looking upon him with heavy-lashed, coveting eyes as she waited for him to regain some tattered shred of his composure.

it's after one such instance that she's devoting her more slow, biting, open-mouthed kisses to the strain of his heavy, lean thighs that she finally muses,  "i wonder ..."  cinching her fangs around the jut of a hipbone before gleaming eyes find his and hold him there as, with despicable delicacy, she finally  – finally –  leans in and gives the tip of him a little, testing kitten lick.

a deep quiver shuddering its way through her own pale thighs, damp with her wanting.

"when? when will you be ready for me?"

when would he want her?[/narrow]

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He'd just about scraped up the courage to mount her when she turned to him with a plea, one he couldn't deny her - even as he thought of how impossible it seemed in the position she desired. Never before had he seen even the wildest of wildling folk, nor the bunny rabbits in the fields, attempt it the way she suggested. Was she taking the piss? No, she could not be as cruel as he thought of her for just a moment as he took his place on the bedding of the temperate.

Though cruel she was, with her teasing kisses that made him create a language of pleasure all his own. He lifted his wrist to his mouth to quiet himself, eyes squeezed shut as he relaxed the muscles in his neck. He couldn't look at her do this to him, mostly out of embarrassment but also out of disbelief. He'd never even kissed his mother before today, as a babe only suckling on her teats and as a child too macho for such affections.

He bit the insides of his mouth in silent - or not so silent - anticipation of relief, but it never even came. It almost hurt, but not in the way he was used to it. This pain was hot and desperate, not stinging like the scrapes he'd get out hunting.

He peaked at her with a flushed face as she spoke, her own lids hanging low in the pleasure she got out of this. How cruel indeed. He'd not last long in this state, but still his front legs rose to hold her in place as his back ones weighed her backside down. “Right about yesterday, you honey-tongued valentine.” He rumbled, though it didn't nearly sound as mighty as he'd wanted it, still very much aroused and in pain.

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