you did not mean to be cruel.

Something stirs inside her, even as senses take everything in. It’s a war: the urge to rake nails at his skin and demand he tear silks off with a matched zeal — and a softer thing, sweeter and new, that blooms where his lips tenderly meet her skin.

She only knows one way to do this. It never occurred to her to temper her heat into drawn out warmth instead of raging flames. But the feeling he’s long been inspiring in her only seems to embolden now that they’re together, the barriers between their bodies caved in. It throws her off. Kendrial works to smooth out the wrinkle formed between her brows, thankful, for once, that he is a surface elf. It makes him much less able to see her flush.

She wants to get back to what they’re doing, but she can’t shake the niggling thoughts in her mind. The reverence imbuing his touch, the depths of his eyes, has made her wonder just what this means to him. It makes her wonder if this is some special case.

It’s only now that Kendrial realizes she’s frozen, unsettled gaze tracing over his face. “Is it always like this?” Words slip before she thinks to stop them. Yet the question does little to explain her true qualm, one she’s never needed to voice before. Doesn’t have words for, in her own tongue. A hand lifts, finger tracing the length of his arm with the same softness as he’s showing her, a far better explanation than she can say. “— For you, I mean.”

Had he given thought before to how this might be, it would not quite include the gentleness of strings or the glow of moonlight. Perhaps it would more have been a roll beneath a rosebush, quick and fun, heady with the perfume and the sense of danger from thorns. He had forgotten that the best partners in this melody were ones that could have both, one flowing into the other or each in their time, as a whim struck.

But then, it had been a very long time, though not quite as Elves reckoned such things. He could be forgiven for having let the memories fade, for the sake of his peace. They came back now, but different, still tangled with affection, but some of the bonds frayed enough to wrap around this dark elf, so confident and so unsure on his lap.

Her question tumbled, fluttered, a bird in a house unable to find the open window to freedom, and he stilled as she stroked down his arm, pleasure alighting through his skin at her touch, and that she thought to. “No,” he said quietly, hearing what hummed beneath her words, a thing difficult even for him and his kind to say. “It is not always like this. It can mean nothing but pleasure. It can mean a pledge of two souls to each other. But most often, as now, it is something between the two.”

It only stands to reason that it’s from him. Why here, why now? Why should a touch she’s felt countless times before hold more meaning if he’s the one doing it? It’s frustrating. Kendrial might be more angry if only she weren’t so distracted right now, caught in a dizzying web of feelings that she certainly doesn’t need right now.

In any case, those sentiments can wait until after she’s satisfied. As if fueled by this confirmation, Kendrial meets his kiss with renewed vigor, cleansing such tedious thoughts from her mind. It may be the only time she has him; far be it for her to waste the experience contemplating emotional ties.

 How long had all this been building? Perhaps that one fateful night beneath a sky shaken with stars. Even through the endless days spent prowling circles round his house, Kendrial had wanted him. As a reprieve from boredom at the start, but somehow, her motives had shifted. Before, anyone might fill the inky void of her desires. Now, it could only be him.

And now she has him —— or, nearly. Need has made her patience short, yet she has no breath to spare on words that might convey that fact. The air is hitched up in her chest, held as fingers weave into her hair, silver strands tight in his grasp. He’s good at this. Tempers pain with hints of pleasure, a balance to his every act.

She’s nothing but a melody played under his expert hands. Unreserved, not in control. For the first time in memory, Kendrial doesn’t mind it.

What she does mind, though, is that he can’t kiss more of her. There’s time enough, when she pulls back, to offer him one fleeting smile, a thing feral and soft at once. Silks drape and brunch haphazardly against the backsplash of her skin. She guides his fingers towards one shoulder where a slip has left it bare. Leans close, words brushed at his ear.

“—— Why don’t you undress me?”

It would not have been right to even consider this with her, not when she was half prisoner and half guest in his house. But something had shifted, something that made him think of her less as an obligation and more as someone who desired to be where she was. Or at least, desired who she was with.

Perhaps he could have still been polite, had she not come to him, a bold and rich offering undercut with the pleased little notes as he plays fingers over her skin, learned what it is she likes most from a partner in this particular dance. If his own tastes do not tend towards the edges that hers do, her little mewls of pleasure smooth away whatever reservations he might have had.

Why not indeed.  He found himself matching her smile as he edged up, shifting her weight on him so that he could have his hands free for her to guide, to glide up over silks nearly as soft as her skin, but not so nearly as warm as when his fingers finds her shoulder. “The lady had only to ask,” he informs her, and nudged the strap further down. Finding the other, he eased that down as well, delicately, savoring.

She only knows one way to do this. It never occurred to her to temper her heat into drawn out warmth instead of raging flames. But the feeling he’s long been inspiring in her only seems to embolden now that they’re together, the barriers between their bodies caved in. It throws her off. Kendrial works to smooth out the wrinkle formed between her brows, thankful, for once, that he is a surface elf. It makes him much less able to see her flush.

She wants to get back to what they’re doing, but she can’t shake the niggling thoughts in her mind. The reverence imbuing his touch, the depths of his eyes, has made her wonder just what this means to him. It makes her wonder if this is some special case.

 Truth be told, she didn’t think he had it in him; he’s far too genteel to ever seem rough. But the playful sting at her bottom lip has her mouth curling, the languid stretch of a satisfied cat.

“Oh.”

Daydream shifts to life as his mouth lowers, just as she’s imagined far too times. A rise of gooseflesh washes down her arms, creeps up along the back of her neck, a delicious chill on skin gone so heated. He’s nothing like the lovers she’s chosen before ( and chosen she has, for it was an honor to grace a priestess’s bed ) but that seems to be why she likes him. That, and the feeling that it’s not so one sided. He isn’t being forced.

Fingers dance down his arms, curl against his back. Nails bite the flesh there encouragingly.

This is different because he wants her too.

This, too, is an Art, and one he has had a keen interest in perfecting. One did not savage one’s lover, but nor did one neglect any available means at one’s disposal. But he smiled, to hear her little gasp, the subtle squirm of her weight against him, and knew that she had been pleased by the edge.

She made so much of her edges, he forgot she could be soft, except when she curled into him. He wondered if she might forget that she could be, too. He knows the honor she offered him in trusting him enough to soften against him. He wondered if she understood what she was doing.

Because she liked it, because he liked the little tightness of her nails in his back, he scraped his teeth along her pulse-point, kissed the pain. He wanted lower, but more than that, he wanted to take his time.

And now she has him —— or, nearly. Need has made her patience short, yet she has no breath to spare on words that might convey that fact. The air is hitched up in her chest, held as fingers weave into her hair, silver strands tight in his grasp. He’s good at this. Tempers pain with hints of pleasure, a balance to his every act.

She’s nothing but a melody played under his expert hands. Unreserved, not in control. For the first time in memory, Kendrial doesn’t mind it.

What she does mind, though, is that he can’t kiss more of her. There’s time enough, when she pulls back, to offer him one fleeting smile, a thing feral and soft at once. Silks drape and brunch haphazardly against the backsplash of her skin. She guides his fingers towards one shoulder where a slip has left it bare. Leans close, words brushed at his ear.

Dominance is not prized in the underdark, not if attributed to a male. But as with so many things, here Kendrial differed, preferring a partner who likes to push back. Where was the joy if her lover had no life in their eyes, meekly submitting to her every desire?

Jermayan may be submitting, for the moment, but he’s also the one who makes the first move — and that is something she prefers too. Behind the cultured veneer of the knight, he had a steel in him that she admired.

She wonders how hot it need be to make him melt.

With surprising ease, Kendrial’s shifted so that she has his waist straddled, careful to never let her mouth leave his. How could she, when for so long she’s sat and admired the form they take when smiling? Wondered how soft they’d feel pressed at her throat? She’s delighted to have the answers now, just waiting to be revealed beneath fingertips.

It was not in him to merely lay back and permit someone to do what they willed to him, though there was pleasure, a bright and swift bloom in his chest, in having her weight settled over his hips, a promise of things to come. 

How long had it been? How long since he’d let himself want like this, chase that wanting? It hadn’t bothered him, until it was her curving against him, and it seemed he truly would always most want what was most unwise.

Wisdom had no place here, only pleasure.

“Oh.”

Daydream shifts to life as his mouth lowers, just as she’s imagined far too times. A rise of gooseflesh washes down her arms, creeps up along the back of her neck, a delicious chill on skin gone so heated. He’s nothing like the lovers she’s chosen before ( and chosen she has, for it was an honor to grace a priestess’s bed ) but that seems to be why she likes him. That, and the feeling that it’s not so one sided. He isn’t being forced.

Fingers dance down his arms, curl against his back. Nails bite the flesh there encouragingly.

@elven-knight-jermayan

“A poor host indeed.” But her tone is tempered by that soft touch, the likes of which has never dared to grace her skin. It’s strange to think that one so light could have any effect at all; a mere brush of butterfly wings, yet nerves awaken all the same.

She’s reminded of the harp she loves so much, how it comes alive beneath gentle hands. How different in she from a plucked chord, reverberating in his presence?

“You can help,” she starts, and he feels so wonderfully warm at this proximity, much more so than she could’ve imagined, “by starting the fire again.”

Her tongue was tart, but he was coming to find that he liked the sharp bite when it slid over his mouth, when it did not wound but warm. “Then surely I must beg forgiveness,” he said, fingers sinking deeper into her hair, twining around a strand as soft as silk to bring to his lips, daring to desire the favor of a lady.

Courage always ran apace with recklessness, and he couldn’t be sure which was on his tongue at the very scent of her, filling this room that he had been alone in for far too long. He was not a child; she would not be his first lover.

Jermayan may be submitting, for the moment, but he’s also the one who makes the first move — and that is something she prefers too. Behind the cultured veneer of the knight, he had a steel in him that she admired.

She wonders how hot it need be to make him melt.

Inktober day 15

Oc- Dyospiros

traditional inking+ digital color

elven-knight-jermayan:

Gardens and music both make her eyes be ember instead of blood-red. He’d never before wished that he was an accomplished gardener, as some Knights were; he had set his sights higher, on a more delicate art than merely keeping plants alive.

Anyone might decide that these colors and scents were pleasing together, and ensure that they did not die over the course of the growing season. To create an art that permitted no second chances in touching the heart of another, that took greater skill. Or at least the will to gain it. He had both.

“No, hardly,” though he chuckled as he did, as if her keen interest was as well-hidden as she wanted it to seem, “including the parts I do not remember,” he added, but with wry humor. He hadn’t believed - afterwards, at least - that she’d intended to harm him even then.

He touched the strings, and smiled to himself as music flowed from him as easily as liquid. The melody that came from him seemed simple, except for the trills, except for the low notes that hummed a harmony. “But perhaps you wish something different,” he suggested, fingers momentarily stilling as he arched an eyebrow towards her.

It’s like nothing she’s heard before. No sound quite compares; more melodic than birdsong, with more depth than the rain pattering in a roof. If beauty was held in high regard for a drow — and it was, make no mistake — there was often something sinister there too. This is different. It’s beauty for beauty’s own sake, just as everything within the city of Elves. It’s unhindered. Pure.

“No.” She’s drawn from the spell as his fingers go still, something dangerously akin to a pout at her mouth. “I don’t,” she amends with more grace. “I only assumed you’d burned the night from your mind, given the direction it had turned.”

Her smile is wry too, a touch secretive, remembering how nicely it had gone at the beginning. She takes a slow sip of tea at last ( it’d be a lie to say she’d first liked the taste, but as with many things, it’s growing on her ). A tip of her head towards he instrument. “Since that’s not the case, I suggest you make good on your PROMISES.”

He saw the moment he had her ensnared, the little lean and near arch to her back as he plays, and smiled as he traced another run up and down the strings, a glissando glide. No, a garden might bloom in its season, and show show a different side of beauty in every hour, but if a garden could be a peaceful setting to conduct a seduction, music was the seduction.

And a pause left his partner craving more. “Perhaps I speak too boldly for you,” he commented, “but I believe that the night turned as neither of us intended.” It was a peace-branch, an acknowledgement that she had not meant what she’d quickly been accused of.

It’s his plans that still seem unclear; the mystery of how the ball might of unraveled is one that’s destined to elude them both.

Maybe.

Or maybe it isn’t too late, just yet. Kendrial can read signs of seduction like a book, well versed in the subtleties and dialects. Unless she’s very much mistaken, there’s something more held in his eyes than mere desire to play for her.

Her eyes light at the prospect of this new distraction. She had to admit, he had a good deal of grace. If he noticed her stiffness — and she bristles at the mere thought he did — then he was at least kind enough not to draw attention to it.

Courtesy was much different amongst drow. If the words were polite, the tone often held an edge sharp as a knife — and often, that’s typically how the encounter would end.

“You did.” She sits up a little, too curious to feign indifference. Her gaze is keen on the instrument, watching fingers dance over taut strings. She smiles, voice sweet. “And here I thought you’d forgotten that night.”

Gardens and music both make her eyes be ember instead of blood-red. He’d never before wished that he was an accomplished gardener, as some Knights were; he had set his sights higher, on a more delicate art than merely keeping plants alive.

Anyone might decide that these colors and scents were pleasing together, and ensure that they did not die over the course of the growing season. To create an art that permitted no second chances in touching the heart of another, that took greater skill. Or at least the will to gain it. He had both.

“No, hardly,” though he chuckled as he did, as if her keen interest was as well-hidden as she wanted it to seem, “including the parts I do not remember,” he added, but with wry humor. He hadn’t believed - afterwards, at least - that she’d intended to harm him even then.

“No.” She’s drawn from the spell as his fingers go still, something dangerously akin to a pout at her mouth. “I don’t,” she amends with more grace. “I only assumed you’d burned the night from your mind, given the direction it had turned.”

Something slips. It doesn’t seem as if she moves, blinks, breathes — and yet it shows there just the same, some imperceptible flicker. Whatever reply she’d thought he’d match her coy comment with, it certainly wasn’t this. One sentence disarms her more thoroughly than any combat ever has.

She’s practiced at this: games, masks, turns of conversation. What she has precious little experience in is the genuine things, and it’s that which has her falter, trying to recover.

He’s just giving an example, after all. Not speaking specifically about her.

“Hm.” Offhandedly, eyes on the tea. “Yes, I see the difference.”

It was always the smallest things with her; an instant of utter stillness, a tightness before she exhaled. The cause was not his to ask about; the directness would not only be rude, it would be a blade she would feel obligated to parry with assurance and misdirection.

If he wanted the truth about her, wanted to know just what she was, he would have to do so gently, through watching her. He could have happily reported on that to his king and the mages entwining them both in magic, but it would have been more than half a lie; he didn’t watch her to ensure she meant no harm to the city, but because he wanted to know more of her.

He already knew she meant no harm. Just as he meant no harm to her.

Courtesy was much different amongst drow. If the words were polite, the tone often held an edge sharp as a knife — and often, that’s typically how the encounter would end.

@elven-knight-jermayan

Of course she’s heard. They both know that — he’s just willing to INDULGE her, at the moment anyway. Maybe she’d only been testing just how far she can push him here; maybe it’s much more to do with how pleasing those words sound. In truth, Kendrial can’t believe them — not quite, despite the show of confidence she’s always displayed to him.

The drow in her suspects a motive. Peels away the glossy shine, looking for hidden intent. The secret, hidden part of her, though, the vulnerable underbelly she kept hidden from her kin… well. It’s all too willing to believe.

Blind faith might not appeal to her, but she’s willing to trust him for now — if for no other reason than she wants to. Chin rests atop delicate hand, amber eyes fixed on the elf as he returns back to her. “If this is shameless flattery, I can’t say that I object.”

Before he’d met her, he’d known what drow were. They were utterly committed to the destruction of all who walked in the light, and as they were fiendishly clever and always lied in such a  way to make it sound the truth, could never be trusted. He had done his best to hold to that truism, and it was easy to be suspicious of her in light of it.

But though the saying was “Stubborn as an Elf“, she’d eroded his intentions. Extravagant though she was, she would not have been able to hide malicious intentions, not for this long, not without giving him some hint of what lurked behind her red eyes.

She’s practiced at this: games, masks, turns of conversation. What she has precious little experience in is the genuine things, and it’s that which has her falter, trying to recover.

He’s just giving an example, after all. Not speaking specifically about her.