#ohsodashingme

      When it had been proposed to her every early in the morning that they go on an adventure, the last thing Marain had expected to see was Asgard being a mere dot on the horizon. And while their trek had largely been on horseback it hardly saved them from the elements; wind that tussled hair and blew leaves at them, waterways that soaked them and creeks that left them muddied and climbs that made them dusty.

      They had no destination, no reasoning for the path they took other than to take it and see there it lead. It was an adventure of the best sort; one where they laughed and communed and bonded. And despite having to return to the city it hardly felt as though the adventure was ending. Though future adventures might be postponed, Marian mentioned, if she didn't clean up before returning home at such a late hour.

      Now, recently fresh from a bath, Marian stood before Fandral in a borrowed shirt--made originally for a six and a half foot tall man--that fit her more like a night shirt. The light pants she'd also been lent looked no less ridiculous on her. She tried to make comment about it but before she could, the blond's hand was brushing damp-dry hair away from her face and behind her ear.

      The touch was delicate and slow, rendering Marian stock still. It hadn’t been the first time Fandral handled her hair—once a flower found its way there—but now was different. Now they were alone, close; more intimate than before. Now his staring wasn’t so crestfallen but rather enamored, and his touch reflected that.

      Her breath shallowed the longer she watched him and before Marian knew it she was leaning into the contact, biting the inside of her lower lip. Goosebumps flush down her arms as Fandral brushes her bangs over her crown and it makes her lips twist up to one side.

      "I didn’t do that terrible of a job with my hair, now did I?” She jests at him softly, not an ounce of impishness spared for the glimmer in her eyes.