WARNING: This thread contains material exceeding the general board rating of PG-13. It may contain very strong language, drug usage, graphic violence, or graphic sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.
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To some extent, he was growing bolder in his interactions. More and more New Caledonians were becoming known to him by name. More learned of him as the healer and sought his aid or counsel. Life still felt unfamiliar often, but he found it was finding more and more room in him. He accommodated the new awkwardly at times, slowly, still making for many a clash of traditions and attitudes towards things. Even people who were no longer strangers could remain strange to one another. But the more time away from his brother and in the midst of the rest of the recently formed pack he was afforded – the more he discovered.
One recent discovery, earned through the curious Willow who relied on his knowledge of plants, he felt inclined to share. The flowers were new, unknown, and he felt reluctant to make much use of them yet. They did not seem like medicine, and he knew better to eat what he did not know by name, by form or by scent. The latter however, their scent, made for a peculiar reaction and was not at all unpleasant. Perhaps, if approached with respect and precaution – not delving too deep into their midst, not sampling them carelessly, keeping some measure of one’s wits about oneself, they could even be enjoyed. He wanted to share the feeling with her, if only because the brief flower-induced euphoria so surely brought her to his mind.
The Songthorn took rather little effort to spruce or preen prior to the meeting. He still lacked any garb worth noting, though he’d begun to consider a cloak or something to dress his loins. Bellad did, however, remember the Moonwraith’s attention to his mane, and took the effort to comb it into something that very nearly seemed less of an unattended mess. No cutting. Change took time, and change to habits in regards to his appearance was no different. The faint smell of herb still remained about him too of course. With how much he’s been spending around lavender it was no wonder it was starting to rub off on him together with other grass and wildflower. He did have more confidence to his step, like he no longer walked among the dwellings of New Caledonia afraid to take a wrong turn. Not that the journey to her doorstep would be long either way.
Having had some practice with the subtle art of knocking on doors, the experience of barging in on Calan and a little practice during the Casa di Cavalieri tourney making an impact on his manners, he rapped at the door to her dwelling with the back of his knuckles. A sound that would not be at all difficult for a luperci to pick up. He expected the door could open to reveal a number of people these days. It could, of course, be Amon, perpetually looking like a glacier with a stern look about him and a manner some could read as pairing a verbal invitation to come in with a non-verbal invitation to get out. Could also be Fennore’s new guest, and oh what a joy she would be. He still could not fathom how Ierian could stand her attitude. Perhaps it, like many other things, needed time to grow on him. Or perhaps Bellad would take more frequent baths to stifle said growth.
That said, he received neither answer, nor sound of approach, so his newly acquired skill of knocking on doors was put to the test again. He did not want to persist if no one was home, or no one who wished to be disturbed by him at least, so no third series of knocks followed. Instead he stood patient, even as his mind raced with anticipation. Would she find the new flowers surprising? Would she go with him to see them and bask together in their sweet aroma? Would she reveal to him if New Caledonia’s people would pick flowers for one another, or else, more like Bellad’s, only bring their cherished to where they bloomed to contemplate them wherever they were found? Would she want one? Perhaps he should have brought one to show-…
The string of thoughts and questions, evoking some of the thoughts he’d considered during his visit to the patch of unfamiliar plants, was interrupted by something else. He smelled something. Surely enough, to him it was second nature to react to the approach of a luperci scent. He would have perhaps known who was at the door before they actually opened it. He did know, almost certainly, who bore this smell. But there was something to it. Some not entirely unfamiliar nuance. His ears perked ever so slightly to join his nose in its attempts to anticipate who was now in the house. More importantly, what could this smell be?
note to myself: this is back-dated closer to their return from the tourney ~~
[+504]
She was miserable.
This was not the first time she had dealt with such a wretched cycle, but prior experience did not make its effects any easier. Having a male living in such close quarters, similarly, did not make this any easier. Wither Rose pestering her endlessly also did utterly nothing to make this any easier.
Naturally, the solution was to banish them from her house for the majority of this ordeal; and, just as naturally, the pair did not seek to incite her ire when she gave the order. Amon found it easy to entertain himself with trivial matters around the pack, as well as the horse, and the girl would disappear into the woods for hours at a time, felling whatever animal she could train her arrows upon.
Even the felines in the house were becoming problematic. Macha's suffocating affection was far too much to bear. She, too, was sent away with Wither's ornery Maine Coon, off to torture some other innocent soul instead.
It was painful to isolate herself in the stone house for a number of days, especially when there was still so much to be done around the Realm. At least it was an excuse to throw herself headlong into her writings; and when she wasn't distracted by the intrusive thoughts and fantasies, it worked. But otherwise, it was a week of absolute anguish.
The knock at her door seemed far too loud, causing her to flinch; who had the audacity to disturb her now? Fennore had almost gone the entire span of time without having to deal with anyone else — to spare herself the embarrassment, more aptly. Growling under her breath, she quickly slipped into clothes, anything to at least cover some of the scent.
Not that it would do much, but she had precious few options.
Hurriedly she smoothed out the fabric of the magenta dress, sighing irritably at the unmistakable sound of a second knock; they were not exceedingly patient, were they? That was rich coming from a woman in the merciless throes of heat, but, unsurprisingly, the irony all but escaped her. She would make quick work of them, no doubt shooing them away or passing them off to Amon's company if it was something urgent —
But it was a different sort.
Throwing open the door revealed the dark healer, his warm eyes sending a shiver down her spine. She must have looked crazed, eyes dilated and tangerine-tinted hair in a lazy braid flowing down on shoulder. The Lady froze, mouth ajar, before she collected herself, forcing down whatever strange thoughts occurred to her at this sudden appearance.
Unfortunately, there was not much she could do to hide it. And in the face of Bellad, it seemed even harder to ignore.
"Yes?" she clipped with a strained throat, claws digging into the door. Of course it would be Bellad. Of course it would. The endless humor of the stars would never cease, even when she was at her most vulnerable.
The door swung open rather quickly, very nearly causing him to need to dodge out of the way. He stood his ground and before him was Fennore, in a state that he hadn’t seen her in before. The surprise was mutual it seemed, though hers perhaps exceeded his anticipation. As she rather curtly asked about his presence, Bellad wondered to himself if perhaps, should he be offered a chance to trade away his skills at healing for the skill of not showing up at a bad time, it would be worth considering. What’s more, he finally started to get an inkling of just what he’d been smelling.
Oh by the Myriad Spirits no.
“I-…”
Greetings? What greetings? He was by no means vindictive enough to omit pleasantries solely to treat Fennore equally. But he was certainly given pause. Flowers, he vaguely remembered. Pleasant smell. This one was pleasant to a different part of him, faint as it was. Fabric did only so much to obscure it. Although if anything it at least showed Fennore wasn’t being open about it. Not that nature would ask her permission, or his for that matter.
“…-just wanted to show you something.” His mouth said just as he thought ‘I should come back another time’ would be perfect for this situation. The unreleased phrase lingered in shock at his mouth’s audacity then headed off to whatever afterlife missed opportunities end up in.
Really though? It was well enough she even opened the door for him. To drag her out of there right now would probably be nothing short of cruelty. So the healer stood before her, dumbstruck for a time, then suddenly realized he wasn’t saying anything and she had no idea just what it was that he wanted to show her.
“There are these flowers, you see...” Maybe he should have brought her one of the flowers after all. Or maybe he should have forgotten about the flowers by now. But no, he tried to force himself through the rest of the explanation. “They uhm… emerged… recently, they smell very…” Very nearly as enticing as she did right now. He trailed off again, the ever dutiful internal critic now casting into question his powers of speech, his sense of timing, his general intelligence and gradually expanding to more venues of spectacular failure, all based solely on this one encounter.
“That is to say…” His tone grew steadier now as he mustered some composure. If he could just pretend she was a subject of healing, remember his teachings. Thinking back to how he was told he was to ignore fears or urges when treating someone’s condition. No time to consider your attachments or reservations – just the vessel of life that needed your mending. Mattered not if the vessel was attractive. Had he not succeeded in feeling impassive during treatment before? Ah yes, but never against this intensity.
‘At least find it in you to finish talking without bumbling like an utter fool!’
“… I can see that you are not… in the mood for a walk around now, so perhaps there will be another time to show them to you.” Good, he felt he was steering this elsewhere, somewhere where he wouldn’t appear to be forcing something on her. That is, aside from the need to respond, whether to dismiss him or otherwise follow through with their conversation.
It was foolish of her to think that the male would be any less frazzled than herself in this situation. It was foolish to think he could feign any sort of calmness and grace in the face of this revelation. And whereas Bellad was usually measured in his words with considerable deliberation and some semblance of eloquence, he too was rendered utterly speechless and a stammering, blabbering fool. She did not notice how her pale claws were digging deeper, deeper into the frayed wood of her door the longer he stood there, scrambling to find something remotely appropriate to say.
He knew what she was going through, it was abundantly clear in his stilted delivery, and yet he didn't see it fit to put her out of her misery? Fennore had half a mind to send him away right then and there, but she was helpless to his stuttering, somehow finding it within herself to let the jumble of words flow as they may. It was torturous, her patience ran mighty thin, but she endured.
Flowers. He found it so hard to talk about flowers.
Of course, that wasn't really what was hindering him, but it made it easier to think of it as such.
Finally, after what felt like years of a slow, painful progression, he offered a smidgen of mercy. Her tense shoulders relaxed with a sigh. Her hands kept pressing the door forward, seeking to lock him out and retreat to her dungeon and writhe for the remainder of this wretched cycle. But, somehow, a stray thought wormed its way into her mind.
She said nothing, as she had managed not to for the entirety of his spiel, and though the answer was blindingly obvious, her mouth felt dry, like sandpaper. Licking her lips, an abhorrent motion given the circumstances, her wide-moon gaze dropped to the ground at the man's feet.
Just say no and be done with it. Just say no and be done with it.
"I — " Fennore flinched at her own voice, finding it far too loud, and closed her eyes before beginning again. "... I would... like... a walk."
No, she wouldn't. No, she shouldn't. And yet that foolish, stupid part of her answered before the small piece of sanity left could object. Her claws suddenly slipped further into the wood, piercing right through from the sheer pressure in her hands — and she pried herself away as gracefully as a flustered woman could muster.
"Show me these — flowers." Her words felt heavier than usual, more demanding, less polite. She couldn't even stand to be polite in this moment, anyway, not even to spare Bellad's pride, much less her own.
Her speech was strangely slow and did little to obscure the sound of claws scratching on wood. Bellad had the wisdom not to point either out, but none to explain to him just why she would oblige him in this state. By the time she spoke again, the healer could swear the pounding of his own heart formed a rhythmical backdrop to Fennore, who indeed confirmed that she wanted to be shown the flowers. He wasn’t sure whether to be happy. His thrumming heart leapt with no regards for any conscious knowledge. His ears visibly perked up, though at least his tail did not join in and embarrass him with a frivolous wag.
“Of course.” He pledged.
Being as it was, her tone invited no further doubt. No “are you sures”, or “wouldn’t you rathers”. It was clear she was already, for all intents and purposes, abandoning a willing confinement. Together with him. Whilst she smelled so…
The trek, he hoped, could get his mind somewhat off of the condition she was in. But with his reliance on scent being what it was, merely shuffling their positions so that he was at the front did little to help. She was walking right behind him and he felt it, acutely, as he led her, diligently retracing the route shown previously by Willow.
As they made their journey, Bellad made no attempts at small talk. For one, because he had strong doubts when it came to his skills of conversation where talk was meant to be small. For the other, because he feared any wrong move could make her bolt from him like he had venomous fangs. An absurd notion of course, and yet rationality was taking a definitive break. If only the same could be said for his restless thoughts.
The buzz in his head took him inevitably back, to those he had known, and to some specific few from whom he had heard a manner of this scent before. Desperately he sought some answers in lessons of the past. How did women from then react and respond to such occurrences? Some sought relief rather openly, and found it in suitors of their choice. Others demanded a distance from their peers and a chance to withstand the natural cycle in solitude. Fennore went with him. Could this mean...?
The question festered without an answer. He had no idea what Fennore or even New Caledonians altogether accepted, or how best to inquire about it. He focused on what he knew, and he knew where to walk. His purpose - to share what he intended with the fair Moonwraith, was all he had to parry his tension. By no means a source of relief, but at least it propelled his feet in the right direction. His nose guided him to where the unknown flowers bloomed, though it also ceaselessly reminded him of his present company. It was a pleasant one to be sure, if inspiring thoughts of an invasive nature, elbowing their way past solutions and reservations to assert themselves.
“We are close.” He said the first words in what must have been a mutually torturous chain of dozens minutes. And indeed the air was now gaining undertones other than two beasts fighting an instinctive desire. A scent, new, though unmistakably floral, and at its root were of course the promised flowers up on the hill, stalks rooted between the stones, petals swaying in the sea breeze that blew the aroma towards them.
Had Bellad had asked if she was absolutely positive in her decision, more than likely she would've backed out, or at the very least put off such an excursion for a more appropriate time. But there were no second chances to reconsider; he accepted it as it was, not with any perceivable excitement or relief or anxieties of his own, but he accepted it all the same.
Thankfully they did not linger at her doorstep for much longer, because it was beginning to become blatantly obvious to the woman that Bellad Songthorn, in fact, did not wear clothes, and in a circumstance such as this, that was very, very problematic indeed.
He walked ahead of her, shielding from her view any indication that her 'situation' had affected him any sort of way; if she had bore witness to such a thing, it was very possible she would have simply turned on her heel and trekked back home. Prudish as she was, Fennore was painfully naive about anything of the sort — and to speak it was of course the gravest sin of all. She'd probably die on the spot of humiliation, and that was an ailment even an established healer such as the Starseeker couldn't dare to cure.
Dead silence stagnated between them, as it had every right to do. She would not have it any other way. Bellad seemed to judge the situation well enough not to overstep anything; the walk in and of itself was already a huge undertaking. Seeking to fill this void would be too much to bear. She could only handle so much in this heightened state of awareness. Or was it debilitated? Who was she to know? She was a slave to her own thoughts, and not at all a willing one.
When they crept upon the foreign blossoms, however — strangely, the suffocation of her cycle seemed to lessen.
Her own vexing aroma was dampened, subtly replaced by something more sweet; sweet in another sense, rather. They were tall, splashed with all manner of colors and so unmistakably alien to her. Her ears pricked forward, brows quirking as they approached, and a particular cornflower blue bloom caught her eye.
She had never seen anything so odd before, and the frustrations painted across her face began to lessen.
A white hand reached out to meet it, gracing the green stalk with a ghosting touch; it was almost as tall as her, maybe even taller when it reached its full height, and the candied scent tickled her nose. She blinked once, then twice, before impulse bade her to bring the flower forth to her muzzle, to take in the perfume fully.
The worries of her heat seemed to drift away, carried off by the sea breeze. It was so queer, how easily they fell from her, but at the same time, it felt exceedingly natural. There was only the pleasant aura these flowers gifted her, and Fennore hadn't the insight to even so much as question it.
All manner of colors, both known and unknown, burst behind her hooded eyes, and she looked to Bellad with a saccharine smile.
It occurred to him, suddenly, that sometimes his cautionary advice was very much warranted. And embarrassed as he was, this was no reason not to describe to Fennore that the flowers could have so strong an effect. Yet it came as an afterthought, when she already approached one of the flowers, coming within arm’s reach from it. He remembered the effect they had on him. It wasn’t unpleasant, at least if one was at peace with a brief loss of finer control. With a sweet intoxicating drift of thought in unpredictable directions.
“Fennore, I…” No doubt as he set out to speak again, there was some warning intended for her, a belated piece of advice regarding the flowers. Don’t breathe so deep without getting used to the scent. Don’t wander towards them carelessly until you’re sure the more blinding part of euphoria has passed. Don’t touch them, especially not with your muzzle. Namely all of the things she just did right before his watchful eyes. He could at least talk to her now. Warn her to stand by him, admire them with some degree of caution.
And then he saw her smile.
The breath caught in his throat, then exited soundlessly if only to avoid suffocating himself. There it was, the daydream from the time he visited this place with Willow. Only now it was so very real and tangible. Those lilac eyes were truly looking at him, she was here among the vivid flowers. The smell, no, smells, tingled his nose, intermingling – a siren song made into aroma. He checked if he was still breathing. He swallowed to make his tongue and throat co-operate to let him form words. For all those things, he still couldn’t tell if it was he who had walked closer to her, or else she’d approached him and he somehow missed it.
He just knew the flowers were suddenly closer. And so was Fennore.
His tone was soft when he finally put his ability to talk to the test. “Are they to your liking?” No, wait, that wasn’t what he meant to say, was it? Did he not just remind himself to warn her? The flowers were making his mind drift again. Having experienced it once, he could at least pin it down and try to chase down escaping thoughts. Having experienced it once was not nearly enough to start mixing it with the smell of a female in heat.
“Their smell is… quite strong.” Good, he’s managed to find some backdoor to the subject at hand. He pushed the thought onward, but couldn’t muster any urgency to strengthen his tone with. “Take care not to be overwhelmed by it.”
And why was he so worried? It is not as though the smell could make one do anything drastic. At least he either couldn't imagine, or else recklessly pretended to be unable to imagine it. Becoming distracted was possible, but then, was that not what they coveted now? Of course, before finding out about her state, he thought merely to introduce her to a beautiful sight, but if it served as a desirable diversion, surely there was no harm? So he left his suggestions at those already spoken in a tender tone, vowing in his mind to wrestle control from the fragrant pollen-induced glamour should a direr need arise.
His advice would have fallen upon deaf ears; no, she only heard the gentle bending of these flowers' tall stalks, the breeze combing through the budding grass between her toes. It was a song, the lyric of the earth, and it was the most beautiful music she had ever listened to. It far surpassed the simple instruments of her clan, their bone flutes and their goat-skin drums, their lilting voices and their clapping hands as they formed a large circle around a billowing bonfire, flames licking the night sky and communing with their gods —
And in this brief moment of euphoria, Fennore could almost entertain the thought of a god, but finally Bellad's voice broke through.
Her eyes, unseeing, had stared vacantly at him, but only now did she refocus on his dark face, the faint glow of his eyes. Wolfish features had always struck her as more inherently attractive, and in the pastel blush the blossoms provided, he was picturesque, despite the ordinary wariness he wore like an ill-fitting garment. Were they really so alike? Was she always this fastidious? Somehow, adhering to such strict procedures seemed so trivial now.
Still, she said nothing at first, waiting the deliberate curve of his mouth as he spoke. The dreamy smile softened, and she found the will to nod, idle fingers stroking the tangled braid as she took a step closer. "Yes," she answered, barely above a whisper, pupils dilated beneath thick lashes. "They smell wonderful."
Overwhelmed? No, that was a silly fear; he was a silly man, and she laughed at his silly wasted warning before looking again to this particular baby blue flower, again letting her whiskers trace across its bulb.
It occurred to her how desperately she wanted to feel his hands again, just as he had taken her in the first time they ever laid eyes on each other; she was injured then, ailing from some attack from some stranger that she strangely could not remember. But she vividly recalled Bellad taking her palms into his, gentle and soft, before he applied a balm so soothing and cool against her irritated flesh.
She spun on her heels suddenly to face him again, eyes wide, before very nearly stepping on his feet — she lurched forward, the fabric of her dress brushing against his coal pelt, and her breath danced across his fur.
"Do you remember when we first met?"
Whether she moved on hormones or the flowers, she could not say. Nor did she dare to fight it. Not when it felt so... inviting.
It was as if with every passing moment he found her ever tantalizingly closer. The healer convinced himself he was doing nothing to influence this, but, truth be told, he couldn’t be certain. The flowers did manage to confuse the senses enough to get carried away, and fighting was tiring. Fennore very nearly bumped into him just now. He stumbled, but stood in place, yet still this was enough to offer him a ghost of a touch. Cloth and breath, oh how hard they made it not to want something warmer.
No, it was impossible not to want. Only to try and resist the desire.
The look that she gave him, so thoroughly lacking the tension and reluctance from earlier today, and the sound of her voice, tore him once again from feeble attempts at maintaining complete self-control. She asked of their first encounter, one upon which much has been built. The question entered his mind, like a key turning, bringing memories spilling forth.
Guided by his song they found him. The two scouts of New Caledonia. His brother was still weak and bedridden. Every person he met could be a threat to his slowly recovering sibling. He was afraid, and hid it behind an icy composure, determined to shelter his secret and their plight. His welcome was devoid of warmth, yet he saw that Fennore was wounded, and so he assisted, his second nature invoked despite reservations. “Show me.” He had told her then, reaching out a clawed hand, demanding to examine her injuries with the Sunwarden watching. For the force of his voice, he held them gingerly back then, her wounded hands resting upon his palms, firmly in place, yet applying no grip – merely keeping them exposed to the light of the sun and the healer’s inquisitive glance. Of course at the time he thought nothing of the manner of his touch. His mind was set to the task of mending a vessel of life. The Bellad of the past somehow acted with care and detachment at the very same time.
“I do…” Bellad spoke in the present. “I held your hands, did I not?” Then he realized, in an instance of regained clarity, that the gesture too somehow traveled through time. The touch he was reminiscing was no vibrant memory – he really was holding her hands here and now and his thumbs gently traced the surface of her palms, where her untreated cuts had been before. Somehow he managed to render this absent-minded caress soft even with the remains of rough canine pads in his Optime.
His expression sparked with surprise as memory and reality so collided before him. When did this happen? Was it her who gave them for him to hold? Did he brazenly take them himself? The flowers bobbed their heads in the wind as if in mute laughter at him succumbing to yet another confusing lapse. One thing was clear - this bodily contact, however innocuous, was most assuredly made manifest. Increasingly often would he find himself at a loss for words when it came to the Moonwraith. This instance, no doubt, would add to this count as his stupefied gaze met her eyes, her hands still held in his.
He was not Iomair, who moved on instinct alone; his weathered paws found her in the dark, far from prying eyes, even when his wife was no more than a few paces away. It was dangerous, a perilous storm, forbidden.
He was not Tamlin, who regarded her with the softest golden-green gaze; always too afraid to really be forthright, not unless they both had a heady drink striking flames in their stomachs. They favored, yes, but there were stark differences even then.
She was warm all over, but her hands felt on fire; her dreamy gaze traveled down to find that he had taken them into his own, a hold reminiscent yet so unfamiliar all the same. The scars were still there, discolored, jagged lines across virgin pink flesh, and he traced them with a ghostly, tantalizing caress.
Her delicate mouth parted; amethyst eyes found amber once more, and her own hands moved beyond her control.
Fennore guided him to her hips, letting him anchor himself there; or, more aptly, giving herself something to steady herself. The miasma of her own heat and the sickeningly sweet aroma of flowers weakened her legs, threatened to send her careening to the soft earth; but Bellad was her solid ground. Somehow, she knew he would not deny her.
Resist. It was a small voice in the back of her head that called for order, but her own hitched breathing drowned out any reasonable conscious daring to speak up.
This isn't real, it said again, but she could not hear it.
She kept his hands there, just until she was sure he wouldn't shirk away, before her own traveled to his chest, dainty fingers tussling through his dark fur; it was coarse, as any good wolf's pelt ought to have been. Part of her wanted to say something, anything, but no words came to her. Her head was filled with fluffy cotton, useless.
Instead, she pressed further into him, just to feel, just to be felt.
This time there was no lapse, though he was losing track between the twin bliss of the flowers’ fragrance and that of her touch. He felt her take hold of him, and though he expected she would correct his frivolous gesture and set forth some distance, she did quite the opposite. He felt the curve of her hips as she deposited his hands there, then, with her own freed, he felt her fingers spread across the fur of his chest.
By the Myriad, he was shivering now. And the closer she drew, the more obvious it became, like a ripple that crawled through his muscle beneath the coal black pelt under her fingers. The shudder passed all the way to his mouth and escaped with a gasp, heated, ghostlike as it trembled past her ear. But for this momentary euphoric tremor, the hold of his arms remained firm, though idle no longer.
Dark fur brushed across fabric as he drew her closer still, until at last she was being held in an embrace, one that brought her to his chest within which his heart beat for her so. The taller healer lowered his head, and his muzzle touched very briefly against her fiery locks, his whiskers mirroring the tickle of his breath. This warmth was a new discovery to him, and yet instantly it threatened to overshadow any other desire.
Within the span of a few more breaths, the subtle quake subsided, making way for something more akin to a glow, one still filled with his heartbeat. He took effort to render his breathing less shallow. Holding her close, his hands came to a still.
“Fennore…”
He murmured, his voice close to her ear, but mercifully soft, like his earlier touch across her palms. There was, perhaps, something else to say, but it did not follow at first, leaving her for a time with nothing but a fond utterance of her name. With this pause it was as though he eased into the sensations that felt so overwhelming at first. A tiny fear reared itself in the quiet. Were the flower-induced haze to end, would she turn from him?
She felt his tremors, his uncertainty coming to a head even as he followed her motions with little protest; with an eagerness that mirrored her own, no matter how new and foreign these touches were. His breath was warm — no, hot, in her bejeweled ear, and pale claws were coaxed from their quicks, digging further still into his chest. At any moment Fennore felt as though she'd burst into flames, drowning them both in a merciless, fiery inferno.
But as long as he held her like this, perhaps she would remain in one piece.
For once in her life, Fennore cursed herself for donning clothes. It proved a thin barrier, one that could easily have been discarded, but she hesitated. That certainly would have been much more brazen and impulsive than was typical for her; why was her mind instantly drawing to such conclusions? This would have been the point where, flowers aside, the Escal should have known something was amiss, but she was ignorant of it, totally and unequivocally.
His wispy murmur of her name was almost too much to bear; she growled against his fur, a brief animosity melting away to reveal the true moan underneath. Her claws pressed with increased pressure, with desire; never before had she felt so erratic and bothered, much less by the likes of Bellad, her friend, her confidant, her —
'Please don't go.'
It was such a simple request. And yet it gave her pause all the same. A brief moment of clarity.
How many times had she thought that herself, wanted to say that to a different man?
She blinked, pulling her muzzle back to look him in the eyes. It had been a sobering enough thought for her hands to fall from him, to remember where she was — who she was with.
What was she doing?
"Bellad..." Her face was no doubt flushed, at first tinged with a heat an intimacy unknown provided. But now, she was embarrassed, mortified that she'd really been brought to her knees by her own body — dumbfounded that the likes of the Songthorn had been thrown off that cliff right alongside her.
Those scarred palms found his hands again, but the warmth was gone; it was cold, now, sterile. She swallowed hard, brows furrowing as she called upon her senses to ignore the intoxicating aroma of the flowers for just one rational moment.
Fennore looked at the dirt, unable to hold those flame-kissed eyes any longer. "I... I'm sorry. We should not — we can not." She pushed down, to pry his gentle hands away.
She had never felt more stupid. Even the disaster of the tournament hadn't been this humiliating.
He never knew how much he wanted this. Never expected how hungrily he would draw in every minute sensation, from the scratch of her claws, to the sound of her breath. Nor did he ever know how utterly crushing it would feel when the spell finally broke. He looked back at her, hearing her speak his name. She was so close to him now and he felt so much of her. But there was something else there. Something off about the way she spoke his name. Something he couldn’t read.
No, please, don’t let this be the end.
They should not? They must. They cannot? They already have. Just as his heartbeat rushed beyond all control before, now he felt that very pump of his lifeblood clench painfully in his chest. The pain might have even reflected on his face, just as Fennore’s gaze traveled down into the ground. He tried to watch her, silently beg for her eyes to meet his just once more.
Not yet, please, just a moment more. Though he knew not what this was, let it last just a few moments more.
He closed his eyes, if only to hide the wistfulness in his gaze. He drew in a breath. Calm. Collected. He took the scent apart, unraveling the tapestry into strings. The intoxicating flowers. The woman who moments ago was in his arms. The breeze on the air. Grass, stone, salt. The pressure on his chest slowly declined to accommodate the very breath he took. Inhale, exhale, calm yourself and let this pass. Much as he didn’t want it to. Eyes open to behold her again with the usual well-measured expression.
“Of course…” He uttered, with an abhorrent hitch to his voice that he hastily suppressed as he repeated again. “Of course.” Good, then even his voice was back in his power. What joy. And yet his hands were still in hers. Not a trace of the embrace, and yet, this last tether remained. If letting her go was so right, why was he so reluctant? Why such regret if detaching from one another was the true way of things?
Was it because-…
“I’m glad you liked the flowers, but… like I said, their peculiar fragrance is potent.” After all, the flowers alone were to blame, nothing else at all. Anyone could have gone here and had the same series of blissful indiscretions. No harm done, thankfully, with how reasonable the two of them were.
Having been facing her this entire time, the healer finally let go off her hand. Just the one to let him turn towards the way they came from. “Shall we go…?” He did not take a step, not without her approval, his fingers touching hers very faintly now, as if a mere breath could make them finally detach. He was set in the direction of their journey. And surely they could simply return to the city square like nothing happened. Nothing but a pleasant diversion, restrained in time before it could get out of control.
Of course, he said, and she agreed. Of course this was improper, never mind if anyone had seen them carrying on in such a manner, out in the open; they were not courting, they were not betrothed. This was entirely inappropriate. These feelings, this warmth -- it was a result of her heat and these wretched flowers and nothing more.
It was nothing more.
His touch lingered, despite the gravity of his words. Bellad spoke more, at least to salvage some portion of her pride on her behalf, and Fennore met the explanation with a curt nod. "Right," she agreed, unable to look up at him again. "They... I..."'Got carried away,' was the correct response, but she trailed off, leaving it unsaid. Her actions would speak just as loudly and clearly as words here, if the heat at her face indicated anything.
Shall we?
"Yes." They were just barely there, a ghost of a touch, but Fennore was the first to sever their embrace. As if unclothed and exposed to the elements, her hands instead snaked around her waist, her palm even coming to rest over where her brand burned underneath. It was a foolish gesture, and she was well aware of it, but the Moonwraith couldn't help but feel vulnerable, bare.
If he sought to lead, she did not grant him the pleasure; in fact, the wolfess actively sought to quicken her pace, staying ahead of him if only so he couldn't see her face, the battle of emotions waged upon it. She made quick work of the journey, her hurried gait bringing her to her doorstep once more. Her slender frame shuddered with a deep inhale, and upon its release, Fennore finally found the will to face him again.
"Thank you for," for what, though? For utterly embarrassing her? For making her feel things that were inherently wrong?"For the outing." It was the only safe option she could settle upon.
"Please give Ierian my regards." She slipped inside, her eyes burning on the small holes where her claws had bore into earlier. Her throat felt desert-dry, and words wobbly. "Goodbye, Bellad."
The barrier finally sealed, her shoulders relaxed, and she seethed as she slid against the door frame. Her entire body felt on fire, and it was not at all pleasurable as it had been amongst the flowers. Fennore did not care if Bellad loitered on the other side, privy to her break down; he was out of sight, but nowhere near out of mind.
She tucked her legs close to her chest, letting her alabaster cheek rest on her knee, and she just tried to focus on breathing. No heat, no flowers, no Bellad. Certainly no Bellad. Just breathing. And that alone was a monumental task.
This was an emotional roller-coaster ;_; (Let's do it again)
[+547]
There are times when one has a feeling deep inside, one towards which a lot of digging and soul searching lead. But in fact, the feeling that the last remnant of their touch would be lost soon was close to the surface. He felt her fingers slip then saw her march in front of him, determined it would seem to make her way back home. Bellad felt many things and was missing just as many names to label them. Why those nameless things felt so excruciating was similarly beyond his knowledge. Was it an instance of painful withdrawal?
He made no effort to catch up to her, even though he was not fully content just watching her walk in front of him. The slurry of thoughts gradually formed into more pronounced statements, like tiny fractals of ice taking shape in murky liquid. They touched. They felt the heat. They held on to one another. And it was over too soon. He felt the urge to snap at the latter. But the frustration was no doubt born only from the helpless realization that it was nothing but the truth.
When he looked at Fennore to the front, so skillfully preventing him from catching even the merest glimpse of her face, he also felt something else. A strange sort of compassion. As though he would want to hold her again, if only to tell her all was well and was going to be well. If only to provide some comfort and ease the newly found tension. If only to hear her confirm all was still well back to him. Hard as it was, Bellad repressed many things, and this near-painful urge would be far from the first.
They were finally at her door again, where he came with his offer, not knowing what he’d find in return. She thanked him. He felt something rear itself inside him in response. A tiny warmth to cause some of the prickly ice figures to thaw. “Of course…” He uttered with a small semblance of the softness from before, careful like his voice could disturb her if it were too loud in its volume or too filled with feeling leaning towards either extreme.
It was her final words that made the warmth die down, as if smothered. A goodbye that left him with questions. How long a goodbye? How strict? A tiny scared pup somewhere inside him pleaded to know what “goodbye” meant, coming from her. Coming from her after what happened. Coming from her after they did what they couldn’t have and shouldn’t have. After they did it regardless.
An older Bellad stood in front of her door, holding his every sentiment and even his posture in a vice-like grip of forced control. That something he wanted more than anything else was behind the door that just shut before his eyes was just one of the notions he wrangled, though found himself unable to purge. “I will see you again, Fennore.” He promised himself as much as he did her, audible or not. Then at last he turned from the door that hid his desire away from him. As he made his way back home, his hand traced the spot on his chest that now felt so void of the Moonwraith’s touch.
