ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤfated for . . . ser sevan reyne , @antagonistzz & lord ren blackwood , @graveruins . located in . . . the westerling tents, night of the first day of the headsman's tourney , at lord alester's party , when the moon has already crested its peak and the inhibitions of the party's attendees are dulled .
women and cats will do as they please. embodying both made desmera a hedonist to rival even the worst of sensualists. succumbing to her own wishes had long been the breath of her life, no matter the accusations that they had earned her. out of her mind, strange of the head, selfish, irredeemable, frightening, heretic, heathen — all paled, desmera thought, in comparison to whore. what was it about love and its makings that spurred such passions, whether they be ill - intended or otherwise? she hadn't known as much as where to seek out the answer until she had tasted the soured tongue of sevan reyne upon her own. she found that physical pleasures came naturally to her, the bend of her spine long, her habits rather nocturnal, her tongue eager to press to skin.
still, despite communing with them continuously under the last moon, she had saved her virtue for another, stopping them with the bite of her fingernails in their back. some things — some people, desmera thought, were best waited for. kissing, however, did not grace even the bottom of that list. her lips are wine reddened, her fingertips much the same. it was more enjoyable to make drinking a game, to dip her fingers in the blood red of her wine and close her lips around them one by one without letting a drop fall to the tabletop. the more that she drank, the more frequently that the wine ran down her wrists to burrow within the fabric of her sleeves. she has left a wine - red handprint on the side of sevan's jaw, but she makes quick work of it, teeth and tongue brushing against his skin.
the tent dances around them, even the fabric of its walls whirling and pirouetting with the movement of the revelers within it. lord alester, for all of his bumbling, knows what it is to host a party. the crowd is packed tightly, the dirt of the ground sloppy with spilled drink, but desmera does not mind the mud on the bare of her feet, her slippers long lost to the muck of the dancefloor — nor does she mind her torso pressed to sevan's, a locale she has familiarized herself with with relative zeal. her lips pressed to the side of his neck, her eyes pass over the faces of those around them. how strange it was to see any of these people's features contorted in happiness. how strange it was to catch a glimpse of ren amongst them but yet far from her, when it was his hands she imagined on her now. " you, " she purrs to the ink of sevan's tattooed neck, furrowing her brow when ren does not look her in the eye by some feat of will.
