Briefly she wondered if she would be cooler in her seal form, but even the thought of donning her fur pelt for the few moments it took to shift seemed like too much to bear. Finally, she let out a grumbling noise and peeled herself out of the chair.

"I'm taking a dip in the fountain. I don't care how dirty it is."

And so Walter stood there, brows raised, hands on his hips, silent as she walked past him to leave the room, waiting for his mind to catch up with his ears.

For every 🔥, I’ll tell something distinctive about the way my character has sex. -

The louder Walter is, the more comfortable he is around his partner. If he’s consistently moaning through the session, it’s a good indication that he’s been with them for a while—or he just really really vibes with them enough to let loose in a way he usually doesn’t. This being said though, there are exceptions; if someone is overstimulating him that much then he isn’t gonna pop a blood vessel trying not to make noise lmao. Generally though, it’s just a few grunts, some gentle growling in their ear, and a final, louder grunt of relief.

"I wasn't built for this type of heat," she grumbled. "I have too much hair and too much fat for this."

Her head flopped back against the chair. "Do you think we could just have a tub of cold water brought up to dunk ourselves in? Or would that be asking for too much? Maybe I could just go lay in the fountain..."

"There is no cold water right now. By the time it's brought up from the wells, it's already warm." While it was a bit much to ask of servants who still had to work and stay fully clothed through the day, he wasn't averse to sending for a tub so they might keep themselves damp. The fountain, however... "Yes, I nearly hopped right in it on my way here. It's definitely big enough. Not very clean, though..."

Niamh was not built for the heat.

Seals were built for cold temperatures. Lashriden, the island where she had grown up, was freezing in the winter and mild in the summer. The winters were harsh, yes, but she loved summers on the island.

This was her first summer in Bowerstone. It was hot. Too hot. The kind of heat that would suck the energy out of you and make you feel like your skin was melting from your bones. She had pinned her long hair up into a haphazard bun and threw on the thinnest dress she could get away with, forgoing any short of chemise or bodice.

When Walter returned to their room that afternoon, she was sitting in one of the plush chairs, fan in hand. She'd pushed it into the corner of the room which was the darkest and coolest.

Walter walked into his chambers with an expression of pure annoyance. This was the sort of weather that made everyone in Albion downright cantankerous, where the effects of interpersonal transgressions were multiplied to an unpredictable degree and yet were allowed to go on without lasting damage. There was an unspoken understanding between everyone that wanting to cut each other's heads off over simple frictions like bumping into strangers on the sidewalk was perfectly warranted in times like this. No one had any patience left over when their brains were thoroughly cooked and their ass hadn't been dry in days.

The second he stepped through the threshold that marked his physical existence private, Walter began to shed his day clothes: his boots were flung carelessly with thumps, and his trousers, tight and thin, had to be peeled from his skin. A sigh left him just after Niamh spoke, one of exasperation, long and drawn out and guttural. If a fly on the wall had been unaware of their adoration for one another, they likely would have assumed his ire was for her and not the weather in that moment for how pointed the sound seemed.

"Welcome your guest with an attractive entrance hall." How to select wall paper. 1934.