Arcane and Obsence

That earned him a tender smile from you. “I have been thinking of you too.”

That single confession was enough for Duncan to return the smile, a small one, but it was enough to melt your heart.

“If you are to greet me so each time we meet, then allow me to kiss your hands as well,” you demanded quickly.

“My hands? No, no… why would you do that? They are wounded and—”

Dunk could not finish, for the words caught in his throat as he watched you take both his hands and lift them to your lips, gently brushing them against his knuckles.

“Then I shall heal them,” was all you replied.

From that moment on, Duncan’s kisses were not only accepted, but returned.

Even so, he always found the proper moment to gift you even the smallest caresses. Were you speaking intently of courtly gossip? He would listen to you attentively, his lips resting slowly on your cheek before he rested his head on your shoulder (even if his back would ache afterward, it was worth it when you kissed his brow in return). Were you walking hand in hand with him? Without hesitation, he would take your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to its back. Were you troubled by matters of the realm? Fear not! He would seek to soothe you by embracing you from behind with his great arms, leaving a trail of kisses that began at your shoulder and ended at the hollow of your neck.

When Duncan kisses you upon the lips, he does so with an awkward softness. He lacks experience, and at first he is a bundle of nerves, unsure even where to place his hands, and you must guide him. In the beginning, you both merely held hands as you kissed, slow and tender in languid affection, but now he allows himself to relax, his hands resting at your waist.

Without fail, a soft laugh escapes him whenever you are in a playful mood and, as he leans in to claim a kiss from your sweet lips, you turn your face aside, evading him, your noses brushing sweetly together.

He loves to kiss the crown of your head, closing his eyes as he inhales your sweet scent, his fingers threading through the strands of your hair or his palm resting gently at the back of your head.

Or better still. When he is exhausted from training and can give himself over to you completely, his muscles finally relaxing as he slowly invades your space, one arm around your back and the other behind your shoulders, drawing you close as his body yields. His face comes to rest upon your shoulder while he scatters kisses along your cheek, murmuring soft words of your beauty. Until fully spent, he accidentally lets all his weight fall upon you, fainting into your warmth.

And… if you allow it, after winning a tournament he would delight in lifting you into his arms, spinning you about upon his heels, kissing every inch of your face: each fraction of skin from the curve of your nose to your cheekbone and at your lips, melting into you before setting you back down slowly.