#@inuy21

“I can't believe we're doing this.”

Beneath the surface disbelief of her tone, Oriana's whisper had rung with more than its fair share of mirth, but also with a tension that seemed to stem from something very different than just the need to be quiet. Something that had her voice ring low and tight in the silence of the cool evening air, and made her breath flutter between her slightly parted lips. Fergus would have answered something right away, but his own mouth was very busy with the soft skin right under her ear, so he just hummed non-committally instead, and didn't reply until he was done pressing a last few long, burning kisses all the way down her throat.

Perhaps that partly explained why Oriana's voice was catching like that, now that he thought about it.

“Doing what?” he finally managed back, almost absent-mindedly.

He had pulled back a little – as much as he could manage with the heat of her still calling so ruthlessly to him – but that didn't mean he was willing to fully let go of her just yet. The back of his fingers dragged a slow line along the tender curve of her shoulder-blade, and already he longed to replace that touch with his lips again.

“Sneaking out of our own wedding?” he helpfully supplied, and the words tore a childish grin from them both.

“Yes, that,” Oriana laughed – that delightful sound – and when she closed her eyes and kissed his temple, Fergus could feel the wide smile she pressed into the short hair above his ear.

That helped the pull prove too much for him, and he pressed himself in tighter again, fingers grazing over the silken ruffles of Oriana's dress, up her arms, around her shoulders. Carefully, he lifted the long, intricate earring of gold and rosewood beads from her neck, pushing it back as if it were a strand of hair – which it might as well have been, given its length – so that the beads dropped behind her shoulder, and he could reprise his ministrations more freely. Her skin was soft under his lips, and scented with a rich, heady oil made with ambers, spices, and crushed rose-hearts. He knew Oriana had had her friends bring the small glass pot of it over from Rialto months earlier, in preparation for that day. He also knew they had helped her coat herself whole with it earlier that morning, before the ceremony. Gently, in between many a girlish giggle and whispered blessing, their sisterly fingers had pressed the mixture into the curve of her neck, the bend of her arms, the arch of her back and many more, secret places, to make sure that from the very moment Oriana stepped into the grand Hall of Castle Cousland for the ceremony, and up until the last day of his life, Fergus would never be able to forget that scent.

He could already tell it was working.

“Weddings are boring, anyway,” Oriana muttered, words slurring once more as Fergus' teeth dragged along the line of her jaw.

He smiled again.

“Even this one?” he wondered, trying to sound as if he had taken a bit of umbrage - and most certainly failing.

Oriana cupped his cheek in her hand and lifted his head to face hers. Her expression was so soft, Fergus couldn't help but lean into her touch, fingers running up her hand to intertwine with hers.

“Maybe not this one,” she whispered, tracing the lines of his lips with the pad of her thumb in a slow, burning circle that made Fergus shiver down to the very core.

Her eyes were circled with dark, heavy khol from her homeland, blacker than any coal. It framed her brown gaze like dark velvet would a jewel, and it seemed to Fergus it made her eyes glimmer just as brightly, in the dim light of the cloudy, rainless twilight.

“Maybe this one is the exception,” Oriana said, and Fergus couldn't have agreed more.

They kissed again. Fergus chased after her mouth with much more ardour than what was becoming, but then again, not much about him and his newly-wed wife taking each other's hand and somehow managing to slip out of everyone's sight to entangle like teenagers against a wall of the deserted inner courtyard was becoming of them, was it?

But he didn't care. He could still taste salt on Oriana's tongue, the ritual salt exchanged alongside their vows, pressed reverently on each other's lips under the kindly eyes of their people and their loved ones, and the sweet sting of it in her warm mouth was all that mattered to him, right then.

The stone of the inner courtyard wall was cool under their touch. A pale summer rose from the bush clinging to the arch nearby extended her delicate, wet petals towards the darkening sky. A solitary bat circled over them, wings fluttering in the still air with a sound like a whisper muttered against the constant backdrop of the waves crashing on the cliff-side. The noises of the feast still reached them, faint and joyous, but in that moment it all felt so distant it could have been happening in a whole other country, as far as he was concerned.

“Maker, Ori,” Fergus couldn't help but murmur, flush against her burning mouth, “You look good.”

He toyed with the many little rosewood beads that lined the hem of her sleeve, taking in the sight of her, her dark eyes, her flushed cheeks, the few dainty strands of hair coming out of her elaborate up-do, the warm colours of her dress, in stark contrast with the cool colours of the Castle...

“You feel good,” he said again, hand reverently raising to cup her breast through the fabric, and the way her nails dragged against his scalp in answer tore a soft, unashamed moan from his lips.

She quickly welcomed it into her mouth in another hungry kiss. She nibbled and bit and sighed, body loosening fast against his. Her fingers pressed a firm caress up his shoulders into the nape of his neck, and there they anchored, brushing soft circles at the base of his hair, keeping him close. When her knees parted wider, welcoming the pressure of his hips between her legs, Fergus eagerly indulged in the friction, and Maker, they shouldn't, but it was so hard to stop...

Could they really be blamed? They had been holding back for the whole ceremony, after all. Maker, they had been holding back for much more than that, really: for all of the long days, weeks, months, years leading up to that very moment, right there... It was no wonder keeping themselves in check had proved too difficult a task. The way things were going, the wedding night was well on its way to come much sooner than planned, and Fergus wasn't sure he found it in him to give a damn.

The more than a few cups of various spirits already coursing through their bloodstreams surely weren't helping them to keep reined in, either, but the newly-wed couple can't very well refuse a toast when the glasses are raised in their honour, can they? Neither can they two, or three, or however many their guests found appropriate to raise that evening. Fergus had lost count, to be honest. The fog in his brain was surely responsible in great part for his ill-advised decision-making, but it would have been a laughably grand lie to pretend like he regretted it, in that moment. Especially when Oriana's fingers started undoing the fastenings of his outer tunic to slither between its parted folds, so much closer to his skin.

“So do you,” she murmured.

Her lips found his ear and he could hear how she was panting, then, tight warm breaths tingling him as she nibbled at his lobe. He felt her hands circle him to unashamedly grab his arse, and as she used that hold to keep him firmly nested against her, it was all he could do not to buck forward like a boy half his age.

“I'm so glad, Fergus,” she all but whined, “So glad you're finally mine.”

“I am,” he answered, “Wholly. Forever.”

His tone had matched hers, tight and breathless, and it was all he could do not to moan when she threw her head back to present her throat to his hungry lips again.

“I know,” she whispered, and at that the urge to lift her skirts became far too strong for him to fight back, and so his hands avidly glided down her thighs to grab a handful of soft fabric, head spinning already with the need to tug it up, to uncover her legs, her hips, to burrow his hands in her heat and make her his, finally, finally, as a man would his wife, and not just in the usual frugal embrace, drowning himself in the scent of her offered throat, forgetting all about their titles and their duties for a few burning moments of just-

“Ahem.”

It was just one, deliberate coughing sound, but it was more than enough for Fergus to instantly recognise who was behind it. Him and Oriana all but jumped apart, and although neither of them were ever very prone to embarrassment, this time there was no mistaking the burn of it as it flared all over their faces.

“Aedan,” Fergus croaked out, very eloquently, “Hm.”

Stepping even further back, he did his best to gather himself, running a hand through his hair while Oriana, cheeks flushed, flattened the creases of her dress.

“We were just...” he started, but Aedan cut his feeble attempt at an explanation short by blowing a miffed huff through his nose.

He was standing with his hands on his hips, looking them on with a deadpan expression on his young features. Perhaps it was the wine, but Fergus suddenly found there was something very funny about the scolding attitude his little brother - all dressed up for the occasion and with his sash elegantly pinned to his chest by a heavy silver brooch - was putting on right then. Oriana seemed to think so as well, because one short glance her way was enough to tell Fergus she was biting back a laugh.

“Fergus,” Aedan scoffed, “I'm thirteen. I know what you were “just.””

And that was just the last drop needed to upturn the cup. Fergus dipped his head down, unable to contain his laughter any longer.

“Is that so?” he wondered, unsuccessfully trying to conceal the crack in his voice by pretending to clear his throat.

Oriana wasn't even trying to hide anything, at that point.

“Would you listen to him,” she openly laughed, “This grown man is aware of it all!”

She walked away from the wall, composure already all but recovered, while Aedan rolled his eyes in that rather theatrical way of his, arms crossing in front of his chest.

“Enough so to know that Mother and Father would scarcely approve,” he said, obviously trying to look as if he were the mature one, there, standing so high above their childish nonsense, “They've been looking for you everywhere.”

“So they sent you?” Fergus asked, finishing to straighten the collar of his tunic back into a more proper, less dishevelled state.

The embarrassment had faded away quickly: it was hard to remain upset about anything, to be honest. Not on such a happy day, and especially not about his little brother taking it on him to act grown-up in light of Fergus' own juvenile behaviour, for once.

“Not really,” Aedan admitted with a small shrug, as Fergus walked up to him as well, “I rather sent myself.”

He relaxed a bit, facade cracking to let a small smile through as Oriana laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“I thought I'd spare you the embarrassment of being dragged back to the hall by the ear on your own wedding day,” he said, “I'm agreeable as such.”

Fergus chuckled, and ruffled a hand through Aedan's curly hair, shortened for the occasion, but still very much unruly.

“That you are,” he mused, while Aedan pretended to squirm, but he was only half-joking, and they both knew it, when he added: “We are ever so grateful.”

“You very well ought to be,” Aedan winced, doing what he could to tame back the newly-tousled mess on his head with his fingers, and struggling.

Oriana helped, picking a few curls from his forehead and gently pushing them back up. She was smiling oh-so-softly, and Fergus once again found himself staring, marvelled, at the woman that was now his wife.

“Well, sorry about this,” she said, “We didn't mean to embarrass you.”

“I'm not,” Aedan protested, scoffing defensively, “So don't be.”

He dipped his gaze, though, and his voice was much lower, when he spoke again.

“You're happy,” he murmured, “I'm glad.”

Oriana's smile widened, and she bent down to kiss Aedan's hair, a short peck which he didn't shy away from.

“Thank you,” she said, and Fergus would have said the same, if only his throat hadn't felt a bit tighter than it ought to, at the moment, and he wasn't sure he could have kept his voice steady.

“Alright,” Aedan said, then, louder, as if the moment had suddenly become too weighty for his taste – and maybe it had - “Let's head back, shall we? Lest Father gets worried for real, and sends the whole guard after us all.”

“Let's,” Fergus agreed, finding he was, unsurprisingly, not so fond of that scenario.

He let Aedan take the lead, while him and Oriana followed suit. They exchanged a long gaze, in the silence that had formed. She didn't need to say anything: the mischievous gleam in her dark eyes told Fergus everything he needed to know without her even needing to open her perfect mouth. Smiling back, he extended his arm for her to take. She was right: there would be time for the rest, and very soon. All the time in the world, really. Wasn't that what they were getting married for? A little more celebration with their gathered loved ones surely was no disagreeable way to spend the wait. Even if, as he suspected, they weren't going to fool a lot of people with a few flimsy excuses about needing a bit of air, and were sure to hear about this for the rest of their lives.