29. fabric tearing because neither of you has the patience for buttons.
/ characters: f'rhen + ophelia.
/ 350 words, suggestive.
F'rhen knew nothing he did on Ishgard could draw more attention than the scales adorning Ophelia's skin. Still, people liked to pretend. Nobles most of all, with their practiced praises and such. Genuine or not, it always felt good paired with a smile and a specifically bold touch against the rings of his hand. F'rhen had been enjoying it enough to be distracted, and still, he should've anticipated it when the conversation circled back to the Dragonsong War — even in that careful way ishgardians did when pretending they were speaking about something else entirely.
"I still find myself… wary of them. Dragons, I mean, and anything that resembles such. However, you do not seem to share those reservations." The noble tilted his head in a way resembling charm, or an attempt of such. "Which led me to form an inaccurate impression of you in the past. This night has been a pleasant surprise."
F'rhen barely remembers the end of that conversation. He does not remember how he found his way back to Ophelia in the next second, nor how he convinced them to go back to the Fortemps Manor. He does not remember their walk back either, but when the door slams back against the silent room and Ophelia's laugh echoes through his ears — he remembers everything far too clearly.
"Need help?" They asked, teasingly, unaware, as their gloved hands tangled in his hair while his lips found the warm skin under the stupid high collar of their coat.
F'rhen's rings got caught in the lace of their dress, his usual confidence giving way to impatience as his fingers hooked in a stubborn fastening before he gave up on gentleness and snapped their dress open. The dark fabric parted to reveal Ophelia's scales — deep blue against their skin, warm by the fireplace of their room and the last layers that still linger before he pulls them away entirely.
The glow moves over them the same way it lingers on Ophelia's eyes, curious, now watching him disappear lower, beneath the dip of their hip.
send me a number, mayhaps?