Flowers and Fey (Closed for WeaverofWorlds)

[Apollo Wilde]

Kisses always seemed…messy to her. Maybe not “messy”, but on the verge of being distasteful. Hot, at the very least. Not “hot” in the vernacular, but “hot” in the unromantic definition of temperature exchange. Hot, and wet, and maybe stale.


Kissing a fey, she was quickly learning, was something all in its own category.


Now that she could actually ‘focus’ (if she could even call it that), it felt less like flesh touching flesh and more like drinking a sweet nectar he was pouring into her. Maybe it was the exchange of energies; she’d been so scared (she could admit that) and tense before that she hadn’t thought much of it until it was over. The sparks of her body functioning on levels she hadn’t thought possible, that was one thing. But this was something else - this was…pleasurable. She might even call it intoxicating.


Her tongue glided easily over his, the clumsiness of a novice slipping away to the adventurous nature of someone who enjoyed what she was doing. Willing to try new things - a break in the kiss here, there, to flick her tongue against his lower lip, to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, to deeply inhale of his cool flesh that was tangible as fingertips against glass: one false move and he’d slip away.


Already, it would seem that the spell was wavering. He took advantage of her all too human need to breathe, and would answer her question, in more depth than she would have expected. A flash of suspicion then, deep and quick, flicking her skin open down to the bone, exposing raw nerves, lighting storm of truths and deep mistrust. A reliance on only herself and the Green, perhaps an over reliance on it, the desire to want to believe him, and the knee jerk reaction of disbelief. But she’d accused him of lying (perhaps not so much as “lying”, but trying to change the circumstances of their deal) before, enough to implant an equally primal desire not to enrage this powerful being again.


I wish I could believe him.


Maybe you could pretend?


No. I can’t. If I did, he gains the upper hand.


What does your life matter anyway? There’s only you, The Green, and what threatens the Green. You’re nothing without it - and you knew at the start of this that even if your life meant nothing but to resolve this issue, it would be a life well spent.


So her answer was to duck her head, trying, failing, to hide a shy smile, on the edge of a scoffing chuckle. What could she truly say, other than indulge in the warmth of his hand against the small of her back? Her right hand on the nape of his neck, she pulled him in closer to her, not ready for another kiss, but not wanting to be too far from him. The hair on the nape of his neck was fine, spun silk against her all too rough mortal fingers.


"I guess I don't have much of a choice than to believe you," her words were little more than a whisper against his chest. There was still work to be done, no matter how nice her current place was.


But there's no harm in a little power exchange, is there?


"Now," a bit of uncertainty in her voice, "How did you propose sharing more of your magic with me...?" She knew the answer - or thought she did - but was driven by a wicked desire to hear him say it.

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

A wonder it was to see his actions and words, or rather the results they brought forth from his hesitant companion. Nem's posture and face betrayed her pleasant feelings for the touch of his lips upon hers. Just as wonderful was her reactions to the answers she sought. From pleasant relaxation to sudden suspicion, her features growing once more stoic and hard, the tense atmosphere almost shattering the glow of pleasure. Yet that wariness didn't quite reach her eyes, and once more the young mortal seemed to be struggling against herself. It was almost as if he could hear her words, wrestling the thoughts that raged against each other. As ever, he watched with the contentment of one being provided the greatest of shows, delighted in her as she ducked her head down, tried to hide her expressions from his watchful gaze. Was it embarrassment that wrought such an action, or was she learning that near everything she did was a source of information and enjoyment for one such as he?

Did it truly matter?

Regardless, she did not draw away from him, if anything she drew him closer still, and yet her gaze didn't rise to meet his, her lips stayed safely away. Shyness, from one so generally determined, was an enticement all its own, one that had him chuckling slightly in amusement as he set them to their dance one again. The feeling of her feminine form accented her uncertain question, drew a hum as he contemplated the answer. He had been truthful with her last question, a rarity from the fairyfolk, and as much as he loved indulging the woman before him, he was still one of the fey with a reputation to keep, even if only playfully.

"Dearest Nem, I only proposed that I could make the process of growing your power hasten along, and perhaps in an enjoyable manner. I've said nothing more than that, though... I suppose if my words elicit some particular act within your mind's eye, I would not be adverse to discussion..." He was teasing her, quite clearly and blatantly. He wouldn't dare insult her intelligence by pretending otherwise, and as ignorant as she may be regarding more interpersonal matters, he doubted she was oblivious as to what he was doing. All the same, he would play the game further, especially with her, if only to draw yet more reactions from her, to see more of what she hid behind her mask of Duty. "But I suppose if I am so ugly that you must shy away from the sight of me, that I must hold my words, and lament my failing in your eyes. I apologize for my failure in appearance, Anemone Hulce, and that I would subject you to such. How could I hope to inspire your mind saddled with an appearance such as I am?"

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Her cheeks turned brick red, a muted reaction to how hot her face felt. Like she could’ve combusted, melted away on the spot to avoid such pointed commentary for him. Like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar, she only had a few options before her, and none of them would dispel what she’d been caught doing.


“You’re not ugly!” Said suddenly, with a ferocity that sent the plants around her to giggles in how it was completely unguarded it was, quite the different response from a woman who was used to being cagey at best when it came to speaking her feelings. “You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.” Then, as the laughter of the plants rang in her ears, she had to fight the urge to push him away, to act like she hadn’t said what she had. Easier to turn back the sun in the sky.


“You’re awful,” she grumbled, begrudgingly. A look back into his face, at the brilliant scarlet of his hair, the silver eyes that danced with merriment. If it was amusement at her own expense, or simply because he was enjoying this game she was clumsily playing along with him, she didn’t know. And, to be honest with herself, she wasn’t sure if she cared all that much.


“…You’re not going to be the type of man that makes me beg for it, are you?” The ‘it’ in question, she was still a bit too shy to say out loud, but if he kept pushing, surely those walls would come down. And what she was basing those words off of, she had no idea. Men were the enemy, men of magic even more so. And creatures not of this world, who weren’t supposed to exist out of fairy tales, the absolute worst, sheer monsters who could find the right words for even the most unwilling of humans. But, as she’d told herself before, there was nothing left to protect. He had her first kiss, the first taste of her body, and it was all a small price (for what was she but nothing) to keeping the world that she treasured safe.


Would it be so hard to actually enjoy where this goes?


Flashes in her mind, hints of romance novels, of breathless heroines and lovemaking until wee hours of the morning. Maybe not a possibility given the pressing matter of what lay at hand, but if there ever was a person that she thought it was possible with, it’d be the man whose arms she was in now.


“…And are mermen real?” Random, out of nowhere, but there was a joking nature in those dark eyes. “If I’m to be used by all sorts of magical creatures, I suppose I’d want a merman next.” Fingers ticked up the line of his arm, willing to let down her guard. For now.

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

"Oh, I am no more beautiful than a summer breeze upon a quiet lake. I'm afraid I pale in comparison to those my better. Beauteous Summer, Harsh Winter, many more besides whose features cannot be described in words."

Despite his deflections, her outburst was met with a pleased smile, the honest compliment accepted with no small amount of pride. For all that he could fain hurt and humble demeanor, he was still one of the Fey folk, and preening before praise was hardly beneath him. Still, that moment of self-indulgence, in the glow of her fierce declaration of his beauty, was swiftly replaced once more, though the self satisfied smile didn't quite disappear. That she followed her opinion with words of admonishment did little to diminish his pleased outlook.

"Little Nem, you've yet to clarify what exactly IT is. You could mean so many things, and not few are made all the better by a bit of begging." The giggling flowers tittered at his evasiveness, the more eager of their number pushing him to lead her once more to pleasure, others less willing but all too eager to gossip and look on regardless. "Why, one could beg for a cookie, and upon receiving that cookie be utterly delighted in the treat... Is that what IT is, do you think? Is Anemone Hulce seeking a tasty treat?"

He'd addressed the plants then, a contemplative look upon his features, even as plants shivered in amusement and grievance. All seemed to agree that he should stop teasing the once-maiden, now woman proper, to finish playing his games. But where was the fun in simply giving in, in speaking plainly when the games were so much more delightful, and with a woman who seemed reluctant and ill practiced, but still played the games with him regardless. It would be a shame to not inure her to the ways of men, surely, a disservice for releasing her from her maidenhood only to leave her to the tender mercies of the wolves.

And then came the questions of mermen.

He could tell she was teasing, making light of the situation, almost fey like in the sudden shift in topic. Yet still a certain possessiveness found it's way through his fickle moods. He led her then into a gentle twirl, arm rising up to allow her to spin in what was hopefully a distraction from the grimace that danced for but a moment across his face. But as he drew her back into a dancer's hold once more, drew her back into his arms, his face gave no hint of his displeasure, no outward sign that he found her teasing tone, of taking another lover distasteful. Instead, the pondering look of someone keen once more to speak half-truths and uncertainties.

"Mermen were once a common enough sight, for all the good it did. I would not wish to surrender you to the siren's call. I suppose it is good that you'd seek to send your gaze away, for all that you praise my appearance. Far be it for me to limit a woman her proper chance to experience the wonders of the world. I suppose that too, might be IT, and could be considered a certain kind of treat, no? Is that what you seek, little Nem? A new experience in the arms of another?"

 

[Apollo Wilde]

A crimping of the corner of her mouth; a suggestion of a smile that she was biting back before it could fully form. He was slippery; that much had been well established, but he, like most Fey, apparently liked the flattery. And she was still torn if he honestly enjoyed it or if she was feeding an overbloated ego. As he spun her around, she decided that it was the former, and not the latter. If he’d been egotistical, their exchanges would be…much more brief. She couldn’t put it precisely into words, but she felt it in her gut. And as much as she hated to rely on that or “Women’s intuition”, neither had led her catastrophically astray. Still, this was a fun game – now she was beginning to learn the rules.



“Why beg for a cookie when you could sneak one out the jar?”



Both hands moved; fingers laced coolly behind the nape of his neck. The dance had stilled; control in her hands, holding him firm in one place. She wouldn’t bother him about mermen; not for the moment, anyway. The seed had been planted for future cultivation – unless, of course, he was fibbing, and even then, there was something charming in him wanting to avoid that particular subject. She’d earmark it for later: would he react the same if she mentioned a centaur or a werewolf? Without speaking the thoughts aloud, she felt a low snickering from the roses, still not entirely faded. Encouragement to let more deviant thoughts fly free, she supposed – they weren’t too particularly picky when it came to romance – or, in most cases, anything that could be in the ball park of physical anything.



“But I’ll ask nicely, since you seem to be insistent on hearing me say it,” she watched his thin lips, then, back to those inhuman eyes – the ones that were similar enough to hers, but if stared into, reflected herself, and then, widening galaxies and lands that she’d only half-remembered from dreams. Standing on her tiptoes, her lips found his with a newfound confidence and an unspoken demand that maybe the time for words had passed.

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

"Why indeed, little Nem."

The slight twinge of a smirk never left his features as her hands found their way to the nape of his neck, stilled the movements of the dance at her insistence. For a moment he simply regarded her, hummed as she spoke, and then her lips found his, the unspoken echoing as if whispered into his ear. It was the bursting of a damn, the game so skillfully played sent crashing to the floor. The moments for teasing, tempting, offering and receiving, back and forth, fell away instead to simple desire. Flighty thoughts and wispy emotion were of little consequence, blown away in the face of a wind that was intent.

He wanted her.

His hands snaked beneath the swell of her ass, lifted her completely from the ground to hold her close. Not a moment of hesitation as he leaned into the kiss, questing tongue tasting her hungrily. The kiss was broken soon enough, but rather the tease further, or speak flowery words, or ask some banal question, the Archfey lifted her higher, his lips finding her neck, left searing heat in a trail upon her copper skin. A momentary temptation, to rip the clothes from her body, to take her once more as his upon the countertop, but no. No, beautiful Num, had chosen to demand from him no words, to ask of him in the most playful way to behold nothing but her.

He would happily oblige her.

Happily give her control in this moment, for such is what she was due, for humoring his whims and playing his games.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

His hands lifted her, her legs wrapped gently about his waist, no concern given if her weight would be too much for him. Mouth molded perfectly to his, before she broke it. A huff against his lips, a broken off laugh, before her legs were wiggling free of him. They had an audience; she could feel it, hear it. Her left hand lifted, the right one still wrapped around his neck.



“Shh…” Soft, playful admonition. Giving into the suggestion of the more salacious flowers, calming the worried murmurs of the more conservative. There seemed to be an unsung agreement between all members of the Green: that the Fey’s presence was welcome, that he spoke to a power deeper and older than what the young woman and her bloodline possessed. If they were old, older even than him, they recognized him as an old steward of the natural order, something that was similar, but different. A guiding hand to either aid chaos or attempt to shape it. As protective as they were of her, they knew more than she, in ways that they couldn’t express before.



Like stumbling through the darkness into the light, all of those subtleties were suddenly understood by her. Something that came through in that small smile of hers against his lips.



“I think my bed’s more comfortable.” Words softly shoved out of her mouth; she’d been embarrassed to even suggest it, let alone think it. Some parts of her were clearly bolder than others; it’d been so much easier to just think sordid things rather than say them. And her embarassment was less because of her desire, now that it’d been blurted out more than once, but of the fear that he’d mock her for them.



He hasn’t made fun of you. He’s just teased you into admitting how you feel.



And that wasn’t such a bad thing.









It wasn’t too far from the kitchen to the bedroom, of course, but the trip had been a quiet one. Their first coupling, if it could be called that, was…interesting. She’d of course simply considered it as part of a deal, with the only bargaining chips that she had that could have been of interest - so what would await her now?

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

He said nothing, felt little need to say anything, had been shown that words were not to be spoken. Rather he followed where she led, curious and content to see where her thoughts and desires would take the pair. His attention remained almost entirely upon her, for what else could dare hope to hold his gaze in this moment. Yet as they slipped quietly through her home, down the hall and into the sanctity of her bedroom, his eyes flickered about, taking in yet more of the place that Anemone Hulce called her own.

And it was her own, marked with her touch both physical and magical. Bedrooms tended to carry such things, the deeply personal, the hidden markers of one's self. Her was no different. The physical touches were generally mundane enough to avoid his notice, at least for now, but the magical. Ah, the magical. He could taste the Green here. It was not as strong as other places, but then it did not need to be. Rather, the Green was pressed deep, into the walls, the air, even the bed itself. It carried her Green, that magic that was her's alone, folded into it's presence by stint of days, months, years of use. Even if the physical object had changed, the use of this room had not, the need for place of rest, of slumber, of dreaming things and in some small way touching the wild imaginings of the Fae realm.

Now he was being allowed, honored, with the chance to invade what was her personal space. Another human, one not the Daughter of the Green that stood before him, he might have disregarded the moment as a merely casual thing. For her, it felt deeper, as if he'd been invited into space that was her's and her's alone, marked so. Only he had been invited inside, gifted with her touch upon his neck, her gaze upon himself. Hm... yes, another human might be nothing, but little Nem's attention was indeed a gift, not one to be squandered or taken lightly. Not, at least, after her professing of love, of her humoring of his flighty nature.

He kissed her again in that moment, tasted her lips once more. It was a light kiss, meant more as a question, a statement, an unspoken thanks for allowing him into her space, her sanctum, her inner palace. But they were also here for a reason, one that had been danced around, teased, yet not spoken of aloud. But no words were needed, why when they both already knew? His hands found the hem of her shirt, too large for her frame he idly noted, slipped beneath the fabric to pressed lightly against the warm skin beneath. Her first time, her first experience, had been quick, uncaring, a terrible example of the joys and nuances of lovemaking. He wondered then, as he felt the smooth flesh of her stomach, tingling beneath his touch with the barest trace of magical seal he'd placed upon her skin just the night before, what thoughts slipped through her mind, what desires she felt when she looked at him. Silver eyes watched her, narrowing in consideration.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Humming into his second, lighter kiss, it seemed that her body was exhaling the scent of the flowers around her. A dusting of rose, powdery violet over that - flowers long associated with love, with desire, drawing from the Green and wrapping around them both, a welcoming consent both unconscious and conscious. A parting of invisible curtains to welcome not only him, but her, to this next stage of her life.



Her flesh twitched at the touch of his hand against her stomach - surprise and a reaction to the unknown sensation. He hadn’t touched her much before - that had been through largely her own doing, she could admit -, and now, she felt…all the more nervous. Before, it had been hurried, not enough time for him to essentially really get a good look at her and decide that indeed, what she truly had wasn’t as tasteful as the glamour.



Sunlight reflecting off of a pond, his silver eyes were blinding, shafts of light that were too bright to look at. She averted her eyes, squinting as if coming into a bright room, before trying to find another spot of him to focus on. His hair seemed to fit the bill, as always, and she focused on the vivid red.



Should I say something? What is there to say? Is he supposed to undress me? Do I undress him? Why is this so awkward?



“I…uh, well, I mean, you can…take my shirt off, if you’d like…”



I wish I could see him naked. But I also feel like if I did, I’d probably burst into flame. A small smile, thinking of the doomed mortal women that tangled with immortal lovers. I wonder - did they actually have good sex?



A small laugh - then, flushing as she realized she laughed out loud. But continuing to ride that wave, she gently pushed him backwards, sending them both tumbling onto the bed in a cloud of blankets and remembered burning incense. Laying on top of him, she lifted her head, shaking her hair out of her eyes, moving her hand to caress the side of his face, the line of his lower lip. “I have no idea what I’m doing. Please don’t hold that against me.”

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

He was on his back now, in the embrace of cloth, pillows and warmth. Her uncertainty in this, her stuttering starts and stops, her inexperience merely another endearing quality. He laughed at her laughter, with her laughter, at the delight that suddenly exploded from her. Whatever the reason, it was a sight he beheld gladly. Her touch was a wonder, just as the feel of her skin beneath his hands was a wonder all his own. Could she feel the hardening of himself against her leg, or was she so enamored of his face that the fact didn't register. In the end, he decided it didn't matter.

His hands, still beneath her shirt, still pressed against the skin of her, grasped the cloth and guided it over her head, pulling it free of her body. He didn't bother to follow it's path after that, flung somewhere into the room, for he saw the beauty before him, revealed to his gaze in her splendor. The curves of her body, the swell of her breast, the peaks of her teats a temptation to his lips and tongue, the sun-kissed copper of her skin begging for the palm of his hands upon them. His sight drank of her form greedily, without the need to hide his intention or desire, for in this moment what need was there for deception?

But she had spoken, hadn't she, her words once more worming their way into his thoughts, bringing his attention back to her, back from that moment of exaltation and instead to some semblance of reality, such as it was.

"Little Nem, it is entirely the point not to have an idea of what you're doing. To hold that against you would be a crime." Another kiss, lightly upon her fingertips as they brushed along his lips, the slight smile of promise and knowing. "The point of learning is practice, and I assure you, I am happy to be your partner in that. Ah, but I have you at a disadvantage. You bear yourself to me, perhaps I should return the favor... Would you care to help me?"

A suggestion, an offer, for her to explore with her hands as he had done, to remove the mundane clothing he was garbed in, in so much as she was ready. To see him more fully, to press her hands against his skin. He hoped she would take it, would push passed nervousness and dive headfirst into the unknown that this must be to her.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Her shirt lifted over her head, helped along by a small shake of her shoulders, blowing more of that diaphanous hair out of her face. A brief moment of hesitation, realizing that she was in her bra before him. Whatever hesitation she had, though, was brushed away as he spoke, the sound of his voice like a song.



“Oh, I’m not sure if I could handle seeing a fey completely nude,” she murmured, rubbing her thumb tenderly under the small space beneath his lower lip. “It’s hard enough to look you in the eyes.” Maybe being this close to him was freeing her tongue; all of the thoughts that she’d wanted to keep to herself came spilling out - and somehow, she was okay with it. All of it. “But if you’re asking…” She trailed off, reluctant to take her hand from his face, but knowing for things to progress, she would have to move.



A heavy, playfully dramatic sigh as she pulled her hand away from his face, and rolled to the side of him. Where would she even start? He’d tugged her shirt off over her head, but she was on top of him. Now he was beside her. Hm. She pulled at the bottom of his shirt, before lifting it up a bit, like sneaking a peek at a curtained off exhibit. Pale skin, perfectly smooth, without a single blemish. Living marble.



“How are you even real?” It was a soft laugh now, as her fingers skittered along the plane of his stomach. “You even smell good,” leaning down, she pressed her face against his stomach, cheek to navel, before turning so that her nose dipped into the small dip in the flesh. That was surprising: she wouldn’t have thought that he would have had a navel. Were fey even carried like humans? Or did they just spring up out of nowhere, out of some unknown collective whim that just brought them into being? “Not like, cologne good, but…” A press of her tongue to the inside of her cheek, trying to pull the words together. “Like…” Her nose against his stomach again, before the softer press of her lips. The slightest flick of her tongue, collecting a small taste. “Riverbed stones. Soft mossy places in the forest. Sunlight through trees.” The closest she could come to describing his otherwise unearthly, but familiar, scent.




With her face against him, it was easier for her to inch up his shirt, higher and higher, until a soft nudge against his arms to get him to lift them, making it easier for her to pull it over his head, tossing it aside to join her own. Lifting up, she clambered on top of him again, straddling his waist. Reaching behind her, she unhooked her bra, letting the clasp spring free, and sliding the straps over her shoulders, throwing it carelessly aside as well. Now bare breasted, she put her arms down on either side of him, looking down at him, silently asking him what she should do next.

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

"Hard to look at my eyes? How disappointing, I've been told my eyes are my best feature, it would be a shame to deprive you the joy of staring into them."

His voice was joyous and self-assured, he knew exactly the effect his eyes had upon others. But it was a gentle tone, quiet in that private sort of way that speaks to intimacy. A slight chuckle as Nem theatrically rolled to the side, his gaze following her with only the most minimal movements of his head. He was content to let her explore this moment, to explore her own limits and wants, pushing things along only when it was required to maybe give her some semblance of an idea of where to go. He watched as she slipped fingers beneath the hem of his shirt, felt her fingertips against the skin of his stomach. Then she dipped low, pressed her face to his exposed flesh, kissed it, a press of the tongue upon skin. It tickled a bit, earned what could only be described as a giggle from the Archfey, the sound like tinkling windchimes moving in a breeze.

"I have been described many ways in my long life, I can't recall anyone ever complimenting my scent."

It was a novelty to him, a wonder he couldn't have experienced without meeting this most wonderous mortal. He moved when he needed to, easing the removal of his own shirt to reveal the unblemished skin of his torso. He watched her marvel at it, watched her straddle him once more, remove the last bit of fabric the hid her breasts from view. Others might have focused instantly upon the obvious, but his eyes instead picked out the slightest imprint of the fabric upon the skin of her shoulders, where straps had pressed themselves into her. His fingers moved to trace them, followed the markings on her skin down her shoulders, down her front as she leaned above him, to the swell of her breasts. Fingers traced their form, palms felt their weight in his hands, thumbs traced tiny circles around her teats. His eyes returned to hers, and whether he somehow knew her question from her expression alone, or if he heard it within the echoes of the mind, it mattered little. He had an answer nonetheless.

"Do whatever you wish. Do not think, rather feel, follow instinct, want, desire." He leaned up, just enough to capture her lips in the briefest of kisses before laying back once more. "This is not a thing of logic, little Nem, but one of emotion."

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“Your hair is a close second,” she murmured, uncovering herself to run her fingers through it. It was such a brilliant red; more like the brushstroke of a painter than the copper red that was “typical” in humans. Vibrant and multi-toned, it spilled through and across her fingers, corn silk against the smooth flesh of his face. Easier to look at, anyway, than the quicksilver of his eyes, that shifting brilliance that seemed to never take anything she said or did too seriously.



To his comment, there was a faint, impish twist of her lips, even as his hands moved to cup and weigh her breasts. They’d be heavy in his palm, deceptively so, compared to how high they sat on her chest. With him taking the slight weight away from her, there seemed to be a shift in her shoulders as well; comfort, leaning into him without it being sexual. Not yet, at least. “How do the Fair Folk court one another? Do you?” Curiosity had given way, undercut the flare of desire that still tugged at the tips of her hair, raised the hair on the nape of her neck and danced along her arms.



Certainly he’d had lovers before, but were they mortal, or Fae like him? What did he get out of it? Did he experience desire like any living creature? Well, maybe ‘desire’ wasn’t so much the right word as so much as ‘biological imperative.’ Less romantic, for sure, but that also asked the bigger question: where did Fae come from?



One hand cupped the side of his face, still filtering through that brilliant scarlet hair of his, the other slipped lower, down the plane of his stomach, resting over the flat of him, keeping her hand light so that the movement of his breathing was enough to lift her hand up and down. His skin was cool, smooth - human-esque, but maybe not quite. Not enough to un-nerving, but enough to keep flicking that animal sense at the base of her spine that all was not what it seemed. Still, as the one hand fiddled with his hair, the other traced down the long line of the side of his body, down the line of his thigh, before crossing over to his inner thigh by his knee. Lightly brushing against the bulge in his pants, she let her hand still over it, feeling the heat of him, how firm the flesh was.

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

A murmured compliment, met once more with a not so humble smirk of recognition. His head tilted into her touch, a hum of gratification slipping from him at the feel of fingers through hair. A subtle thing, one that the archfey had quietly enjoyed from mortals. He sometimes, when he could scrounge up the will and the coin and the desire enough to brave the dangers of iron, slipped into barber shops and hairdressers, just that a human might slips fingers through his hair. A creature comfort he had developed in his time among mortals, for what wonder did the fey find in a color that was so very commonly fantastical? No, to him it was the dull brown of her hair that was fascinating, even after having spent decades, centuries, around such things. Much as he longed for home, autumns touch never truly found its way into the realm of Summer.

It was the way she seemed to settle almost comfortably into him, letting her breasts pillow against his palms, almost spilling out of his grasp as tender flesh gave way to just a bit of weight behind them. She seemed almost... content... rather than aroused, which was a sight all its own. Was she drawing comfort from the intimacy of the moment? Was she finding a quiet sort of relief from the troubles that ailed her, rather than desire and want? Still such an interesting human he had found, and all the more interesting for the sudden thought that spilled from her lips, so very fey in the sudden shift in attention and even topic.

“How do the Fair Folk court one another? Do you?”

There were many who'd sought answers to the fey. Human magi who believed they could research this and that, who believed they would make the world better for their understanding. They gathered lore upon nearly every being that was inhuman, gathered them into great books with words and pictures to illustrate them. Yet never truly did they understand the beings they sought so eagerly to learn from. The fairfolk had been similarly studied, questioned, and ultimately played with, for what true fey would ever give a straight answer? But for her, Anemone Hulce... well, even the Archfey of Wishes could admit to himself he had a soft spot for the Daughter of the Green. Besides, she held fey essence inside her now, didn't she? Surely that meant she was entitles to a question or two. His eyes closed as he considered the question further, delved into memories long ignored in search of the answers she sought, remembered times long ago, fey parties at sunset, brilliant lights upon an elaborate ballroom, music filling the air like the laughter of the stars themselves.

"The ways in which the fey court vary widely based on many things. But yes, we do court. The Summer Court dance, sing, make merry, the end already known, only the path to that end delightfully undiscovered. We choose a partner, entreat them with a game, and if they are willing they will play the game. As you have chosen to play with me, thusly it is expected, if you were one of the fairy, that you eventually would join with me. We need not stay together, for a like a flower it blooms and then fades away, all the more beautiful for its temporary nature."

Her touch upon his skin sent a shiver of delight up his spine, had his muscles twitching against her fingertips. It was the ticklish delight of another, yet it's potential for desire was somehow muted by the calm air about the woman before him. Less the call to lust, and for her more an exploration. It was rather like, instead of using her eyes to see, she was using her hands to feel, to learn of him what she could by questing fingers rather than roving eyes. Even her hand, slipping below his hips, following the line of his leg, over his knee, to the slight heat of his semi-hardness, there seemed little call of want, but rather that it simply was, and she had discovered it as it was. With his eyes closed, he could focus upon the beat of her heart, felt through the warm softness within his palms, feel against his hands the resistance of the rising and fall of her chest with each breath she took. A momentary distraction, then once more to her question.

"The Winter Court hunt, play games of predator and prey. The outcome is never decided, though if the one who hunts catches, the one who is hunted submits without question. Courting to them is a matter of deciding one's place in a relationship, however brief. One could be hunter one day, and hunted the next. They would enjoy either position, though preference abounds just as well. Then there is matter of rank and status, of those fey that live outside the twin courts, of different species, of those that choose to forsake the feywild, of the innumerable differences. Even to fey, we are as enigmatic as we wish to be. Ask the same question of a sprite, and you will get a different answer than a pixie, or one of the great Archfey of the Feywild."

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“So, then, do you have children?” Natural curiosity, slipping through all of the fears and insecurities of being so intimate with him. Not just ‘him’, as if he were a mere mortal, but a Fey, no less, and a powerful on top of that. Power upon power upon power. And yet, here he was, seemingly completely content to lay beneath her, with her clumsy hands in his hair and on the bulge within his pants, still not having completely subsided, though she knew their current conversation was less than…arousing.



She found where she was far more comfortable than the thought of potentially moving to lay beside him. In fact, the only temptation was the desire to lay beneath him - a pale flicker of desire, under the curiosity. Had she been trying to hold off the inevitable, or had her attention truly been caught by something else? It really seemed the latter than the former, her fears eased by his gentle cupping of her breasts. There was no rush from him, and therefore, no rush on her part to play a role that she thought he might want to see. The same mindset that had lead her to craft her own pale glamour to ask for favor, echoes of that insecurity fading away. There was comfort to be found here, whispered the Green, both within and without her, and the sharp edges of fear were blunted away.



After all, she was, as she professed, already in love with him. She’d given him her first kiss, the physical barrier in her body, and her heart, seemingly, all at the same time. The first two she’d planned on, the last, not so much, but hard not to argue that it was an unspoken part of the deal - something that should have been anticipated, considering that dealing with the Fey always had an unspoken, much higher price.



And yet…she was fine with it. Fine with it all. She shifted, keeping her breasts in his hands, her ears open for his answer, all the while, as nonchalantly as possible, lifting her hips to start to slid down her leggings, snagging the top edge of her panties with them. Maybe if she didn’t draw any attention to her disrobing, it wouldn’t break the spell of what was happening between them, that it would keep it easy and laced with laughter and understanding and all that the flowers were still whispering to her were possible, though… “Hunter and prey…sounds appealing, don’t you think?” A thumb lowered to brush across his lower lip.

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

Children... what an odd thought. It suited her, he decided, that such curiosity would come from her, that she would be perhaps the first mortal to ever ask after such a thing. There was silence as he turned that thought over in his head, whether he even wanted to answer it. It was a seemingly innocuous thing to answer. But he'd answered a few questions already, with truths that were not usually given away at all, much less freely. A hum emerged, gentle and warm as a cat's purr, as he reached his decision. Without even cracking his eyes open he let the Cheshire grin slip across his lips once more. There was always time for a fun and games.

"So interested in my kith and kin, little Nem. I'm afraid I've given you enough secrets for free, because I like you oh so much, but to give more would be... very unlike one such as I. At least, not without a little something in return."

He felt movement then, some subtle shifting of weight, but paid in no more attention than that. He felt no compulsion to do more at the moment than feel warm skin against his hands, the weight of the woman above him. The simple feel of the room, and their presence in it, like a warm blanket in its simplicity, but all the more comforting for shared existence. Silence followed for a few moments more, and then another question, an appeal to some other, dormant part of his existence.

"Hunter and prey...sounds appealing, don't you think?"

The being known as Rylnon was an Archfey bound to the Court of Summer. Yet for all that such a thing meant, even such a being was not immune to the changes brought on by centuries of exile. Where before he had lived in realms of perpetual summer, of warmth and life, now he knew all seasons. Had lived through all seasons. Had been touched by all seasons. This too, included Winter's chill touch, the dangers it promised a scar upon the Archfey's essence. Though he would always be of Summer, now he knew something else, something darker and more feral than the courtly affairs. Yet for all that he had been changed, he couldn't help the grimace that suddenly replaced his good humor. Her words were a reminder that the season of winter was on its way, and that the Court of Winter would be ascendant.

"Be careful what you seek, little Nem. I am not so resistant to Winter's touch, not as I once was, and Winter is uncaring of anyone but itself. I would hate to have you invite someone you are ill prepared to resist."

 

[Apollo Wilde]

His smile spoke volumes - and gave her an answer before his lips formed the words. And so, in turn, she was smiling along with him, not as sly, not as self-assured, but in a calm acceptance of his non-answer, an oh, you! smile that was surprising in its tenderness, suggesting that they’d known each other for decades, not for mere hours.


“Mmm, you drive a hard bargain,” leaning down now, replacing her thumb with her lips against the corner of his mouth. This close, every word, every breath, echoed back to her from the warm mirror of his skin. “But I think we can work something out.” Flicker in her belly; unsure if it was power calling out to him or that strange smolder of desire.


And as quickly as it flickered, it was extinguished - the water provided by the change in tone from her bed partner. Not enough to scare her away from him, far from it: if anything, she pressed closer to him, a feeble attempt to warm his body, chase away chill memories with the heat of her. There were more questions there; surely he could feel them, bubbling away beneath the surface, the realization that there was so, so, so little that she knew of the world around her, shame, a bit there, too, at being caught in her ignorance, kindness there too, that he hadn’t mocked her for what little she knew, and beneath it all, tangling with the Green that made up the core of her magical ability, what some might call a “soul”, a deep, deep love. She hadn’t lied when she said he was the most handsome being she’d ever seen, that she’d fallen for him just that quick, but deep down, her power mingling with her own, such heady feelings were steadily being tempered.


Was she in love with him, or merely lust, or, perhaps, the Green recognized one of its stewards and gladly welcomed him, the affection of a child for a parent, for recognizing like within like, was it his power that caused it, or something else? Could be questioned for eons - not that it was remotely on Anemone’s mind. She shifted now, shuffling off the tangle of her leggings and her panties with them, leaving her bare above him, save for her bracelet. A constellation of gooseflesh that rose along her arms, dotting her back, her rear, her thighs - ending only when her bare skin touched his own.


The hand that was lazily caressing him shifted up, tugged experimentally at the button of his pants. Impertinent, a bit, but also asking. She was still too shy to ask for what she thought she wanted - his heat joining hers, banishing all of those thoughts away - more power, more answers to an endless stream of questions, to suck more at what he offered, to pull him into her. But, damn him, she doubted he’d be satisfied with her dancing around the topic. The flare of heat to her cheeks reminded her of the blow to her pride that she was about to experience - but how could she get what she wanted?


“One last question, for now, I promise,” lips still against the side of his, peppering each word with a soft kiss, “Do Fey make love…?” Unspoken wish along with it: and if they do, will you make love to me?

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

Her lips upon the corner of his own was a comfort. Warmth came as she sank closer still, Winter's hold upon him, as tentative as it was, banished just as much by the physical as by the warm intent behind her actions. It soothed the ache of it, banished creeping stillness to the corners of what he was. Hands shifted, from her breasts to holding her waist, letting heat and heart pass between them in the quiet moments between movement and words. The tug at his pants, the silent request that came with it that sang into the air, was enough to have his eyes cracking open. The glimpse alone had his eyes opening further, gaze finding her eyes, the brown of the earth in them that whispered of the Green that slept within, giving life to the world in its many forms.

“One last question, for now, I promise,”

Her words a humble oath, punctuated by silken kisses.

“Do Fey make love…?”

His head turned to meet her eyes fully then, lips pressed against her own. Silver eyes glittered with the unspoken answer, a fey-touched smile gracing his features. He shifted about, aiding his partner in removing what remained of his clothing, hands guiding hers to undoing buttons, to pushing cloth from hips and legs. He felt the moment he was free, his semi-hard cock pressing hotly against her leg. There was anticipation there, invitation from the woman, but there too was still a sense of intimacy, of more than simple desire. If their first pairing had been a transaction, this the Archfey was determined to make a slow dance, taken to its conclusion in time, but enjoyed in every passing moment. Only then did he speak once more, voice barely a whisper in the sudden stillness that settled over the room, hot breath splashing against her features.

"It would be my pleasure to show you the answer..."

 

[Apollo Wilde]

A tremor ran through her. Not of fear, or of embarassment, but of anticipation. Here she was, nude, on top of a man who she’d known for less than a day. Wouldn’t that technically make her a slut? Well, if ‘sluts’ had this much fun, she was beginning to think that it’d be worth being ‘slandered.’



A soft sound, caught between a giggle and a purr, slipped from her as she simply wriggled her bare body atop his, enjoying the warmth of him. He was so soft, so smooth all over, perfection wrought into human flesh. Glamour, she supposed. Must work through all aspects of him, though she could feel the slight thrum in the pit of her stomach. Without speaking, she…could feel him? What was it? How could she explain it? It went beyond the simple idea of feeling his desire, but more like…almost like she could sense his train of thought. Something like that. Not that she was too concerned with it.



Right hand trailed over the plain of his chest, dancing across the firming nubs of his nipples. Her mouth moved from the corner of his, to the side of his throat. Teeth peeked, gently grasped the side of his neck, before being removed and replaced by a well-placed broad swipe of her tongue. She’d read about things like this - in comics that she refused to admit that she still read at her age -, and figured now was as good as a time as any to try those tricks. And his flesh! There was something almost sweet about it; not like tasting skin, well, yes, skin, but skin dusted over with something like sugar, or honey powder. Whatever it was, it encouraged her to keep searching his body with her mouth, lingering still on the side of his neck, drawing her tongue across the base of his throat, placing a small nibble at the hollow between his collar bones.



She shifted, easily, clambering atop his body again, covering his with hers, even as she moved lower down his body. Hands caressed his chest, blazing a trail that her lips would follow, marking each new space with a touch of lips, a hint of her tongue. The thrum in her stomach firmed, coiled in on itself, became a pulsing energy that echoed the beating of her heart. Stopping to rest her cheek on the expanse of his stomach, she placed her ear above his navel, watching, feeling, the steady movement of his breathing. “I think our bodies are speaking to each other,” said quietly, pausing to listen closer. There did seem to be a controlled shifting in her stomach now, the powerhouse of all energy, of flow, moving to match his own.

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

The bite of her teeth drew a rumble of sound, something akin to a growl but somehow deeper, more ancient even than the simple beasts of the mortal realm. Just as quickly the rumble became a sigh, as tongue swept aside the nipping pain of the moment. He watched her, exalted in her moments of discovery, so much he could almost feel her elation, her anticipation. He felt the tug of want as her explorations trailed lower, her lips replacing hands, the heat of a tongue hunting the soft caress of fingertips. It was in the pause of her descent, the sudden stillness broken by quiet words that his attention was drawn to something the simmered beneath the surface, something so miniscule to his great essence that he'd had hardly noticed it all but for her pointing it out.

“I think our bodies are speaking to each other,”

He focused on that feeling, felt it twisting and calling to something beyond the boundaries of this physical frame. He reached for it, for but a fleeting second, and felt something call in return, thrumming like the thunder of a drum alongside his own beating heart. A flowing channel of something he could not quite grasp, for so tiny a thread slipped through his grasp, like fine sand slipping through a sieve. For many other beings, mortal and not, it would be a point of annoyance, of concern, of deep interest. For him, of the fickle fey, it was a temporary distraction, made interesting only because his companion could feel it too. The hows and whys eluded him, but the reason for the connection at all was easily found, thanks to the familiarity of the power that flowed between them as easily as water through a river.

"The seed within you belongs to you, but it recognizes what it once was... Calls to something familiar, Fey calling to Fey. It remembers, and mine essence remembers it." But ever was such entertainment a passing fancy, for this woman who would be his lover had placed herself so very closing to the his length, hardening under such close proximity to she who quested and explored with hand and lips, finger and tongue. His hand brushed against her face as she lay resting against his stomach, pushing hair from her eyes, feeling the skin of her cheek against his palm. A flicker existed, a remnant of the mention of cursed Winter, the flash of a thought that would have him grasp her chin, force her lips about his shaft, before it was banished with a sigh of restraint. Such had no place here, not at least until the Daughter truly understood what she would ask of him, should she invite Winter's cruelty upon him.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

She wouldn’t linger on his stomach for too long. She could feel what was him, still him, running round her stomach, where he placed that seed of energy. It would always remain as a part of him, distinct from her own body, like an organ transplant, but the fear of rejection had long past. She’d accepted him, welcomed him like a missing part of herself, easing whatever difficult transition that there might have been. Their affection for each other - hers, undoubtedly, greater for him than his for her-, helping ease the transition.


Though she could ruminate on the exchange, perhaps write volumes upon volumes to be passed down among the other Magic users still in the world, the rising of his phallus was more than enough to draw her attention away. He was rising, still - and for the first time outside of the hazy remembrances of dreams, she came face to face with a man’s erect sex. It stood proud, flushed delicate pink at the head, the shaft smooth and pale as the rest of him. A smattering of deep red hair, starting at the dip beneath his navel, flaring down to protect the base of that shaft, dust over the smooth ovals of his testicles. Idle curiosity now drove her hand lower to cup them, weighing them within one palm.


“I didn’t think you’d copy these,” she murmured, half to herself, half to the air. Why it’d been such a surprise to her was enough to make her choke back awkward laughter. For some reason, she thought, the Fey would be above such…earthly trappings of reproduction. But why would he have a phallus without testicles? Ah, weird, silly, mindless things. “I thought that the Fey were creatures of air, light, magic. Nothing as…dirty as this.” Maybe ‘dirty’ wasn’t the right word, but it was the first one that came to mind, speaking volumes about her and her own attitude towards sex. Was there a hint of shame? Not particularly - more like…curiosity, why would something of the divine, or as close to it as possible, want to mimic the deeply flawed bodies of humans? But surely, he could pick and choose what form he wanted, how to present himself.


It could’ve lead to a million more questions, more that gathered in the back of her mind like grains of sand in an hourglass, but the tugging in her stomach, no, lower than that, snapped her attention back to what lay in front of her. This close, it would take a mere shifting of her cheek for her lips to press against him - and so it was what she did, that same tug in her stomach, the connection to him, spurring her to do so. And that own natural curiosity of hers - the one that told her that merely touching it with her hands wouldn’t be enough. To truly experience, to understand, to desire, her mouth and tongue were required. A tentative long lick to the side of him, tasting his flesh like an unknown treat presented before her. He tasted…of skin. Why she thought it would’ve been something different, she wasn’t sure, but maybe it wasn’t the taste, as so much of the feel. Not something she could gauge by a mere swipe of the tongue, no matter how long it was.


So she shifted again, settling neatly between his legs, leaning on her elbows and forearms, and, without a hint of modesty, took in half of his shaft, eager to devour, to caress - but without quite the finesse of someone used to such things. Still, she seemed to have an innate understanding - one hand going to cup his balls again, her lips closing tightly on the half of his cock in her mouth, lightening up enough to let her saliva run long, hot trails down the sides of him, dampening him, while the half incased in her mouth would be treated to small flicks of the tongue, her lips tightening and loosening as she steadily worked more into her mouth, hollow now, before her cheeks sucked in as she breathed in, increasing the pressure, eyes flickering up to his face to catch his reaction.

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

Her touch upon the globes found at his base sent tingles through his shaft, stood it to attention just a bit more. Like called to like, and the fey essence that sat within the woman gave her touch a mixture of something long forgotten. She was not of the fey, but she bore their mark, a trace of their presence upon her skin, twisted and remade in her own image. It was an exhilarating feeling, though not so much that his attention did not remain upon his partner. Her idle questions were ignored, though he had answers of a kind, he'd little interest now in plumbing the depths of fey lore.

He watched her quietly, as she examined and touched and shifted about. Her lips found him first, a press of warmth against his length that brought another tingle of sensation across his body. Then her tongue, a long lick that left heat in her wake, a shiver of delight her prize, his gaze fixed upon her careful testing of the proverbial waters. Her caution spoke less of fear and more of slow explorations, of her interest and, dare he say, fascination. A tad self-aggrandizing, perhaps, but he reveled in the thought nonetheless, that she had decided he was of such interest as to take such careful consideration.

Then she was shifting again, and his gaze followed her with the curiosity of one who knew the steps but was interested regardless in the fumbling of an amateur. The thought, what many might consider unkind, was less so to his mind. It was statement of truth, as honest as the sun rising and the moon's pale glow. Experience came with time, and most pleasurable practice. Little Nem, Anemone Hulce, was unskilled for lack of experience, but skilled in enthusiasm, eagerness and instinct. A near silent groan, as he watched and felt his length slip passed her lips, the heat and damp of her mouth a fire upon him, the coiling want springing to life within his chest. Her hands upon him once more was an afterthought, as eyes traced the rivulets that slipped free of her mouth. Each flick of her tongue upon his shaft a jolt through his hips, lightning among the clouds each moment her attentions brushed the head of his cock.

She descended further and further, taking more of him into her, subjected more of him to her careful ministrations, all of it subject to his attention. A hand found it's way into her hair, a gentle pressure, a silent encouragement to her actions. He felt her as she breathed in, saw the flexing of her cheeks, the sudden pressure around his hardened cock. Watched as he gaze came up to meet his, and liquid mercury stared back at her rather than mere warm silver. He felt himself lick his lips, hummed a moment in thought and consideration, before words emerged, some semblance of something that whim and fey fancy made necessary.

"You are doing very well, Anemone..."

 

[Apollo Wilde]

How human; she must be doing a good job. His hand was warm against the back of her head, carding through her thick cloud of hair.


The smallest of smiles, as not to distract her from her pleasurable work, and a deeper inhale of his cock down her throat. She was pacing herself; taking it slow as she swallowed inch by inch of him, her throat working to relax as she pushed herself lower and lower, until brilliant red pubic hair tickled her nose. That would earn a snort of laughter from her, one that would turn into a cough from choking. She lifted her head gracelessly from his cock, covering her mouth as she caught her breath. A shy glance at him; a mistake. Not for fear of his disapproval, but because of the intensity of his silver gaze. Far from the warm teasing she’d seen so far, the liquid chill of them was enough to transfix her, almost undercut his positive words.


Wiping her mouth with her palm, following with the back of her hand, she leaned back, looking at his erect phallus. It was a look of contemplation - of where to go next. Without thinking, she reached out with her right hand, wrapped it around him. Still spit slick from her, his cock slid easily within her palm. It was easy for her to fall into a natural rhythm, working her hand up and down, rubbing her thumb across the smooth skin of his head, teasing the small slit at the head, the flared ridge where his head met the shaft.


Slowly, surely - with building confidence, she stroked him, alternating squeezing and loosening, watching his face as always, with the occasional glance down to her hand and his cock within in, watching the skin flush. But as her breath came back to her, she shifted again to lean over him, shifting so that her breasts pillowed against his testicles and the base of his shaft. If she moved a bit forward, his cock would slip neatly between her breasts - but she wouldn’t give him that. Not yet - though, from the slight flicker in her eyes, the thought crossed her mind. No, instead, she took his head in her mouth again, content to suckle on it as her hand continued to stroke up and down.

 

[WeaverofWorlds]

Deeper and deeper she went, drawing more and more of him into her mouth, her throat, herself. It eyes remained locked to her movements, hungrily absorbing the sight of her, memorizing each moment to be preserved for longer than any mortal memory could hope to match. She reached the end of her venture, her nose brushing against his groin, hair tickling at his stomach, only for her to laugh, to cough, to recoil within moments, gasping for air as it rushed once more into her lungs. A twitch of his eyes, concern slipping through, only to be forgotten just as quickly as her gaze found his and watched it dart away, the sudden coyness of the act causing mirth to bubble up in his breast.

But then she was pressing onward, eager perhaps to escape contemplations of him outside the moment. Her hand slipped forward, took hold of him, slid her hand along his length. Her's were the hands of a gardener, a tender of the worlds plants, weathered from working under sun and sky, rough from the dirt and plants she so often tended. Far from off putting, it had the Summer Fey smiling, knowing she truly was a Daughter of the Green, called to her place and beloved by the life she brought into being. The smile was quickly lost as pleasure returned, at first only slight but growing as instinct found for her rhythm and confidence found for her daring. Though some part of him was loathe to lose sight of her, he closed his eyes, allowed himself to focus on the sensation of her hand upon him, drawing from him little twitches of delight.

He felt it then when she shifted once more, felt the soft pillow pressing against his balls, teasing the idea of her wrapping her breasts around his cock. Would she... the answer came before the question could fully form, he felt her lips about the head of his shaft once more, the gentle pressure, even as she continued to stroke him. A rebellious thought flitted through his mind, an image of her sucking upon one of those plastic wrapped popsicles, her hand pushing the sugary treat up into her mouth. He nearly giggled at the image, catching himself only just as his eyes opened and he took in the sight of her. Some summery part of him told him to guide her more properly, to show her what to do. It was easily dismissed, the Archfey content to let her continue her explorations, follow instinct and desire, and see where it led her from moment to moment. Still, his eyes were of liquid mercury, and thoughts twisted and flitted about, considerations of how he might repay her this favor of her attentions.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

She pulled off of his cock and took in a deep inhale - partially of refreshing herself, partially of self congratulation. The latter was evident in the way she smiled up at him, his damp shaft warm against the tip of her nose. She let her palm rest at the base of him, lightly resting on the top of his sack.


“Hm,” thoughtful, even as she kept her eyes on his, and ran her tongue deliberately up the side of him, using the flat of her tongue before lifting it to the thinnest of touches from the tip. “What should I do next?”


There had been a growing throbbing below her waist - something she’d initially passed off as a response of her innate magic to his own. Or heated emotions passing between them: after all, she was sucking on his cock. That was something that was pleasurable, right? Of course it was: for him, at least. Though she may have been a virgin, she wasn’t completely ignorant of sex. At least, from what she’d seen in porn. She was naked, he was naked, and that strange throb between her legs wasn’t easing. With her other hand, she reached between her legs, curiously. There was warmth there, of course, but the slickness, she hadn’t quite expected. How could she be wet when all she’d done was go down on him? They’d exchanged a few kisses, yes, but had that been enough?


“Could you check something for me?” Asked innocently enough, though she couldn’t manage fluttering her eyelashes at him in a shy manner. “Could you touch between my legs…?”