Ravensblood Forest everybody’s gone in the cotton and the corn [m]

Dated for the early morning of February 6, 2017.

Home.

Ceannasach’s scent was everywhere, and the long awaited decongestion of Lotte’s sinuses was nearly her undoing. He was everywhere she looked — tufts of his espresso and mocha fur clinging to the trunks of the sequoias; imprints of his paws clearly delineated in the frosty loam; the flash of the sunrise winking in his shade of fiery red-orange. She almost resented the sun for its audacity — did resent the scents of Olive, Talewi, and Evelyn that tangled stubbornly with Arturo’s at the territory borders — and she worried quite suddenly that in her absence, she had fallen out of favor with him. Worry warred with eagerness as she tipped back her head and called to him, a low, undulating song without words, laced with imperious demand.

Whether she was to be punished for her wayward wandering or not remained to be seen, but Lotte could no longer deny the cry of her body. There was no flash of fangs or flicker of hackles as she broke the morning silence with another abbreviated howl — it would be some time before she could sing with her former degree of breath control — and began to pace, the spiced ambrosia of her scent betraying her condition. “@Arturo,” she whined, her tone wheedling, cracking at the edges, like and unlike it had been during their tryst in the weald. She was burning — she was running through fire again — and her broad muzzle parted in earnest as she sought to cool down the fever, panting lightly. Bending, she lapped at a melting icicle, catching drops of snowmelt upon her tongue and finally taking it between her teeth, dislodging it like a glistening dagger to cradle between her paws. It helped to cool the thick miasma, but could not dispel it fully.

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His nightingale …his queen demanded his presence and Arturo’s course changed abruptly, long legs carried him towards her without fight from him. She called for him, a wordless gesture that Arturo took to mean she was ready. It came as no surprise to the gangster that he wanted her the second that her saccharine scent of her estrus cycle hit him, wanted her with an fire that burned like an inferno in his belly, his loins; yet he did not forget that she had expressed fear when they had spoken of it and Ceannasach offered his beloved patience. She wandered away from him and he resisted the strong impulses to follow her near irresistible scent as it led out of their home: a silent yet strong sign of his trust. He trusted that she would not allow any man but him to have her and yet despite his faith in her affection and loyalty to him as his wife the gangster did not deny the relief he felt when he finally came upon her and did not smell the musk of another’s seed. It should not have needed to relieve him but he’d worried if only because it was nature: to worry and to doubt.

Those things vanished quickly as he set his fiery gaze to her, taking her in a thousand sweet words burning to roll off his tongue to earn her favor but Arturo was no poet and for the sake of not wanting to sound cheesy he bid them back. Though he thought she was the most beautiful every day (estrus cycle or not) and that Lotte definitely deserved to hear it Arturo did not wish to come off as insincere as intoxicated as he was by the succulent scent her body produced. “My nightingale,” The deep, smoky timbre of his voice was almost desperate as it left his lips. For Lotte he burned, for her he was desperate. Vulnerable. Wanting. Needing. The gangster padded nearer, a low rumble of desire lingering in the strong column of his throat. “Lotte…” Breathlessly, he spoke, he pleaded.

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Hi, Lotte is the worst mate ever. I am sorry. ♥

It seemed when Arturo entered the clearing that the very landscape fell away; Lotte’s attention was drawn so powerfully to the fiery intensity of his gaze and the accented rumble of his voice that she could see nothing else clearly. Her small, triangular ears pressed forward upon her skull as she looked with starry-eyed adoration at her beau — but the rustle of branches in a nearby part of the forest aroused a deeply protective, deeply possessive instinct to assert herself above any female who jeopardized her place at Ceannasach’s side. She rose stiffly to all fours, her moonbright gaze trained stubbornly upon the distant cluster of sequoias, and her lips twitched into a moue of dislike as her coal-colored tail curled high and proud above her back. Even when he padded nearer, beseeching her with a breathless rumble, she found it difficult to turn away from what she perceived as a threat. A whine, low and urgent, clawed its way from her lips.

“Rakas,” Lotte whimper-moaned. A normally decisive creature, she found that the hot rush of her blood warred with the cold, sick shame she felt upon remembering her earliest days in Teaghlaigh. She wanted him — needed him — and it was clear even to her that he was driven by the same desire, but denying the urge to be touched and pursued had become second nature for the soot-stockinged rogue over the past two days. She flashed her teeth at him, skittered away, then contradictorily begged him closer with an appealing whine. Briefly she wondered how he might ever find her attractive after seeing her at her physical worst, but the longing expression on his face was unmistakable. Lotte fought her own inevitable arousal, gathering breath as she asked him in a low, feminine purr, “You have seen me singed and bleeding, weak as a newborn cub — and still, you want to keep me?” Her voice was teasing, but she badly wanted his reassurance. Lotte had never really been the type of wolf to dwell on the past, but she hadn’t confronted Arturo about this either. It was clearly a terrible time to do it, but the sooner the nightingale addressed it, the sooner she felt she could put it to rest. Tempting them both, she moved boldly forward and snaked her body against his, trailing the tip of her tail along his chin before moving sinuously out of his reach.

lotte is the cutest! <3

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Though Arturo paid no mind to the brief rustle of underbrush it had drawn Lotte’s attention …and her dominance. In all likelihood it was probably no more than a rabbit or some other small and nonthreatening woodland creature but the gangster had to admit that seeing her body — surely a maestro’s masterpiece! — rigid with dominance was something glorious to behold. Abruptly, Ceannasach was reminded of the stories of the women warriors his mother used to tell him about to lull him to sleep as a small child. The details were long since blurred but Lotte had struck him as such and for a brief moment Arturo is left to wonder through the siren’s call of her hormones to his how he was so lucky. Lotte is a blessing to the gangster and he strives to repay her for the love and light that she had brought into his life though most days his attempts feel meager. Still, he tries because she is worth everything he can give her and more.

His steps pause, hesitation gripping him as his approach is met with the flash of her teeth and the flight of her paws. Her whine beckons him closer and it is almost too much for him to resist but somehow Ceannasach manages with only a tremble of his legs in effort. He wanted to give in, to move towards her in advance once more but he is struck with the consideration that perhaps (in his eagerness) he has misunderstood. Perhaps she is not ready as he thought her to be. With Duana it had been a mutual blur of heat and false passions and Ceannasach had taken what she was willing to give him without much regard for her true wants (how very ungentlemanly of him) but Lotte is not Duana. He respected Duana, of course, but Lotte is his only and true love, his Queen and that demanded something entirely different of Arturo. Her question breaks Arturo from his revere as he worked to distract himself from the call of her body, his gaze burning low, accompanied with a curious tilt of his head, perplexed by her inquiry. What kind of question is that? Part of him desires to ask but he does not. The want to scoff at such a silly inquiry was strong but he bid it back because she truly sought his reassurance. She worried about it, he realized. It seemed so absurd to him! He, who could love no other!

“I want you always, Lotte. I love you always,” Arturo confessed as she moved nearer, her scent overpowering. He drinks it in deeply, allowing it to tempt him in a way he allowed no other. This was not the first time he’d told her that he loved her but he doubted she’d even heard him the first time the admittance of both great strength and weakness came from his lips and it seemed to be a good way to assure her that he wasn’t going anywhere. He drew in a rugged breath as she drew the tip of her tail along his nose, his whiskers trembling with heavy need, a ghost of a step forward was taken before she moved out of his reach and the cold was left to smack him in the face though it still carried with it the scent of her estrus and the chill is hardly acknowledged by the coywolf. “You are my love, my wife, my queen and there is nothing that will ever change that.” He speaks with an air of authority broken only by a soft breathlessness to his deep, accented smoky timbre. It is hard for him to think but his words come from his heart and they ring true. One day he would make her official queen of Teaghlaigh so that she might truly stand by his side in everything (for he already saw her as his equal in every way) but not until she tells him she is ready. Right now, his focus was on her and the idle thoughts of their decision of children and the future, the legacy that they would create this night for Teaghlaigh.

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Mature Content Warning

This thread has been marked as mature. By reading and/or participating in this thread, you acknowledge that you are of age or have permission from your parents to do so.

The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: amorous congress; convivial society.

Doubts and fears whipped through Lotte like a fire-laced whirlwind, making her edgy and impatient. Arturo would gain many things by taking the velvet-voiced rogue to wife, but a demure débutante was not one of them. Spirited and saucy, she tossed her head and arched her neck to preen deliberately at her décolletage — it was patchy in spots where the flames of Donnelaith had set their teeth upon her, but the v-shaped “scarf” of fur was blessedly untouched. She slanted him a sultry, pointed look over her shoulder as he began to speak, but her expression shifted from femme fatale to starry-eyed ingénue as he put a stop to all of her worries with four words: “I love you always.” She’d been unconscious the first time Arturo had confessed his love, and her moonbright eyes glossed over with happy tears. “I am so happy I lived to hear that,” she breathed, surging toward him in a rush, “so happy I lived to tell you this: I love you, too.”

She covered him in kisses, utterly swept away, her tongue laving wherever she could reach as her teeth nipped wildly at his fur, occasionally grazing his flesh in her haste. “You are my love, my husband, my Ceannasach — and heaven help the woman who forgets that!” she quipped, but there was steel beneath the purring lilt of her warm, rich alto. Hearkening back to the rustling of the branches, Lotte snaked her body along her beau’s with new intensity. She did not know of Olive or the children the pale sylph carried, and so she assumed that the Fearghal’s children would be the first to walk Teaghlaigh’s shadowy halls. “There has been no one else,” Lotte intoned staunchly, “and I have waited so long to touch you again.” Her voice trailed off on an undulating whine that fluttered with a low growl that bespoke her arousal and did not warn him off. The worst had been weathered, and her lips curled into a devilish smile.

With one healed paw she pushed at Arturo’s shoulder. “Lie down, rakas, and let me show you what I have been dreaming of,” she said sweetly, her eyes flashing with Dionysian mischief.

“On your back, please.”

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Arturo holds stalwart and true as his nightingale rushes at him at his declaration — the first she has heard it — and for the intent of not instilling senseless guilt in her it is the first time he has given words to his feelings. What matters is that she has heard him now and pleasantly of all, she reciprocated. Age has never mattered much to Arturo and it did not bother him in the slightest that she was about the age of his children with Duana; and though the breaks of his confidence are quite rare it would be a lie to say that he had not found himself worrying if she would find someone younger, someone more physically stronger; or someone of pure blood. His is not pure, tainted devilishly by the blood of his coyote father and his status as coywolf had been a great source of both trouble and doubt in his life. By some miracle, Lotte did not appear to be bothered by these things and further assured him as her teeth raked through fur and against flesh drawing soft shudders of pleasure from the gangster that there was no one else but him. His dalliances were a pale shadow compared to Lotte who had always been, since the first day he had lain eyes upon her, the apple of his eye. The feelings that rapid grew in the wake of his initial attraction had been startling but Arturo loves her and it it something that he feels in the marrow of his bones.

The snake of her body against his draws a small gasping rumble from the Ceannasach’s lips, fanning the flames of his desire for his wife made to burn to a hot intensity by the hormones her body was producing. The desire was always there and he did not believe for a moment that it would ever fade for him but it is hard for him to think of little else than ache within him. The ache that longed for her, that longed to join their bodies so that they could sate their primal hunger for one another and create their legacy; together. While Arturo finds her request strange he does not begrudge her of it, lowering himself to the ground at her behest and rolls onto his back in the snow, the chill a brief reprieve from the heated flush of his skin beneath his fur.

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Lotte stretched forward, shifting her weight from her hindquarters to her forequarters with luxurious slowness, and fixed her mate with a mischievous smile playing about the corners of her mouth. Voluminous lashes brushed her velveteen cheeks as she savored the sight of Arturo, all long lines and svelte planes and hard angles, and her whiskers quivered delicately as she greedily drew in his scent. “Where I come from — the Enok Tundra — we talk too much to say small things, but love is different,” she murmured, draping her body lavishly across his so that the press of his arousal could entice her, pushing insistently against her flank. “‘Rakas’ means ‘beloved’ or ‘darling’ — it is almost sacred. We are not casual when it comes to speaking of love.” Her tongue traced his midline, beginning just below his sternum and pushing the fur against the grain as she moved upward in an inexorable line toward his throat.

She pressed forward, her muzzle burrowing into the thick fur that lined the column of his throat, and set her mouth against the throb of his pulse, a curving line of soft kisses and sharp nibbles winding their way back to where they’d started. Then Lotte rose, hindquarters first, and carefully stepped back to continue her ministrations further still, nosing without shame at the base of his manhood. “I have dreamed of you this way,” she whimper-moaned, her breath fanning against his tender flesh, and she lifted her moonbright eyes to his as she graced him with a single long, deliberate lick, eagerly gauging his every reaction.

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Arturo looks down his muzzle at Lotte, his tail sweeping side to side in the snow only to beat against the earth in a rapid rhythm, his salmon pink lips darting out to lick at his jowls as she stretched languidly across him. While Arturo finds this ritual strange it is what she wants and true to his word he does not deny her it. She speaks of love, explaining her nickname for him that he has wondered about for some time but ridden upon the assumption that she would explain it when she is ready to and his patience is well rewarded. Her muzzle is at his throat and he presses the sharp curve of his crown against the snow covered earth to give her better exposure. This was an intimacy they had shared before; an intimacy and a sign of unyielding trust. Arturo Fearghal is not a man that exposes his throat to many (if any at all) and it is the only way he knows to wordlessly demonstrate both his trust and his belief of their equality. She could end his life right then and there if she wished it: it would be so easy and quick but he knows that she will not just as he could never dream of doing it to her. Her life was not one that he could bear to lose.

She moves, drawing her ministrations further down his body and when his nightingale reaches his loins he draws in a breath and holds it. It is not that Arturo is unaccustomed to having others so near his crotch — sniffing it is apart of nature, it is how they deduce things about one another, after all — but the draw of her tongue causes his hips to wiggle against the earth and draws forth a low whine. It is not the intimacy he craves and it is new but he does not hate it. It does not bring to him the satisfaction that becoming one with her would but it heightens his anticipation and his need nonetheless. “Lotte,” The smoky timbre of his voice is a low rasp of a plea.

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Cruddy post-work post. ♥

It pleased Lotte to taunt Ceannasach so. There was something infinitely satisfying about being the only wolf permitted to take such liberties. Abruptly, her moonbright eyes misted over at the open, trusting way Arturo revealed the column of his throat to her. “I do not know why I was so afraid,” she admitted, still positioned in a rather compromising manner, her breath teasing tantalizingly along his flesh. While it was true that instinct played a part in her urgency and her immediate need for Arturo, she was pleased to discover that her rationality had remained largely intact. “Come, rakas, let us make music together.”

Without further ado, Lotte turned her back toward the Fearghal, coal-colored tail drawing to the side to afford her mate better access. She didn’t think he needed further encouragement, but just in case, “Please, Arturo — I have missed you so,” she cajoled him softly. The songbird’s diminished constitution was wearing on her more than she liked to admit; the days of travel had worn her ragged, for she had pushed herself to her utmost to cover as much ground as she had. She determined not to say anything — she wanted children so badly! — unless her legs ended up too shaky to take his weight. Afterward, there would be plenty of time to rest. Suggestively, she tossed him a wickedly coquettish glance over her shoulder. “Perhaps I should make you chase me,” she threatened sweetly, wriggling her hindquarters at him as though she was preparing to take flight. She wasn’t, of course — but she did enjoy when he abandoned his gentlemanly ways. It was the gangster she wanted today; who could deny such bad boy charm?

psh, your posts are never cruddy love. <3

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Whether it is his own urgency or his plea that inspires her to rise and allow him to do so as well so that they could, as she put it, make music together Arturo does not know and finds as he pushes himself to his paws as she offers herself to him that he doesn’t much care. There is a burning need within him and he knows that only she holds the power to quench it. No one compared to Lotte. Even Duana paled, barely existent in his memory in comparison to the light that was Lotte. After all, the mother of his first litter had been a fleeting lust inspired by her estrus cycle and that was nothing compared to the solid foundation of love that Arturo felt for Lotte. The gangster moves to stand behind her, pressing his chest flush against her, offering a teasing nip to the junction of her spine and tail, teeth combing through her plush fur. Her coquettish look as she threatened to make him chase her, caused Arturo’s lips to pull into a terse line of disapproval. “We can play chase next time.” He murmurs in a low, smoky promise as he drapes a forepaw over her hip; for Arturo does not think that this will be the first and last time they make love during her estrus cycle. It was the only way to be certain that she would conceive and as far as Arturo was concerned it was a win, win no matter what way you spun it.

A uneven breath is drawn from his lips as he inhales deeply, drinking in her scent as it emits from the tendrils of her silken fur only enticing him further. His second leg follows the first and he rolls his weight to his back legs as his paws grip tightly upon her hips. His tongue draws against her nape lovingly before he grasps her scruff and seeks to join their bodies so that he can longer discern where his ends and hers begins.

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♥! I forgot I made this for morning! XD

This time, when Lotte resurfaced, it was with such a heavy degree of exhaustion that she found it difficult to move. For a long time, she didn’t; she simply lay tucked against Arturo, half-dozing. Vaguely she remembered that she’d almost fallen flat on her face while in the throes, anchored only by her mate’s forearms hooked steadily around her hips as he settled their joined weight on his hindquarters. Still, “It was even nicer this time,” she mumbled sleepily, stretching languidly and dipping her shoulder to roll onto her back, her body still pressed flush against his. “Good morning,” she purred, argent meeting citrine as she smiled lovingly up at him. It had been better, due in part to being somewhat knowledgeable this time.

It was at the back of her mind that she had important information to impart to Ceannasach — but she set it aside, savoring the afterglow of their lovemaking. Yawning widely, “You are so warm,” she murmured, snuggling closer, her mind flitting lazily from one though to the next with no discernible transitions to guide them. “Can we give them two names? One from you and one from me?”

“I am Lotte Ansbjørn Fearghal now,” she added, “but our children will be Fearghal only.”

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They spend the time after their love making, beside one another, nuzzled against each other. He worries for her for a while, and still does even as she half-dozes off beside him. Most of his worry abates when she speaks, rolling onto her back beside him but not all of it. “Maybe I should strive to make every time better than the last, hmm?” His tone is low, it’s smoky timbre husky and something almost wickedfor her scent is still succulent, still tantalizing to him, even more-so now that his musk mingles with her own. “Good morning, nightingale.” He parrots her with a warm, low chuckle that vibrates in the strong column of his throat as he aims to press his nose lightly to her cheek to drink in her scent again. “How do you feel?” Arturo asks her, letting her in on his concern for her. She had not complained and he trusted her to tell him if he had been hurting her (unintentionally of course!). He knows her desire for children is as great as his own and if she was able and willing Arturo wanted to take full advantage of her heat cycle.

“I like that idea,” He murmurs to her with a soft smile as she snuggles closer to him. He has never given his children middle names before for it was not a practice that Quicksilver Hollow found necessary. Sirenames had been unusual too and had been earned as opposed to being passed down. Yet, Arturo had broken tradition with his first litter and he had no qualms about further breaking the Hollow’s tradition (he’d never been one for his mother’s traditions as it was). “Do you have any names in mind?” He inquires. Perhaps it might be too soon but he feels that it is never too soon to be prepared. There are several names he likes that he intended to use for future children. “Is that what you want? For them to be only Fearghal?” Arturo inquires with a draw of his tongue against her cheek: the equivalent of a soft kiss. His first litter bears his name and so now does Chusi but he is not unwilling for their children to bear her maiden name as well though so long as it was what Lotte wanted he would defer to her.

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Tagging for reference ♥

“Maybe I should strive to make every time better than the last, hmm?”

“If that is your goal, rakas, be assured — you are well on your way to achieving it,” Lotte quipped, humming low in her throat as Arturo pressed the wet of his nose lovingly against the heated velveteen of her cheek. “I am so tired,” she admitted softly. “The fire stole my wind from me.” She spoke this with a faint trace of bitterness that flickered briefly in her argent eyes, but it died away as she murmured with cheerful resolve, “I will get better. I am already so much better, thanks to you and our Chusi.” She fell quiet as he spoke of names, conserving her breath, and lifted her head — it felt so heavy! — to nibble affectionately at his cheek and smooth her tongue along the elongated slope of his ear.

Resting her muzzle wearily upon her forepaws, “None in mind,” she answered, “but I have never named children before.” She cocked her head to look quizzically up at her mate. “How did you name your first, Ceannasach? She drew out his title teasingly, tracing over the syllables with a glib tongue. Her ears pressed forward upon her skull as she voiced the request most dear to her: “I wish to name one of them in honor of my kaksonen — but he is already @Dagfinn Ansbjørn III. He is the best of the three. If we have a girl, I wish to make her second name Dagny — ‘new day’.” A gentle smile shaped the nightingale’s mouth, her eyes soft and warm as they gazed upon her gangster. “It is what I want,” she assured him. “If they wish to take Ansbjørn as a third name when they are old enough to decide, they may — but you are their sire, and it is your name that must anchor them.”

Lotte was quiet for a long moment, gathering herself. “Do you have any names in mind, Turo?”

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Arturo lets out a low, warm chuckle as she assures him that he is well on his way to reaching his goal and there is a mischievous glint that writhes in the deep fires of Ceannasach’s gaze but it is tempered when she admits that she is tired. For a brief moment, Arturo worries. He worries if their want for children together was too impatient, he worries that if his seed takes hold within her womb what it will mean for her. She is still healing and though much better than she has been he hopes that Lotte’s life …and the life of their children … will not be placed in jeopardy. Losing children is hard but Arturo imagines that there is nothing that would be as hard for him as losing Lotte. Still, he retains his faith. Lotte is strong; and if her body was not able to handle then surely she would not have gone into heat. The touch of her tongue draws Arturo from his concerns and he takes advantage of the distraction she provides him with to tuck them away. Worrying will do him no good.

“I followed my mother’s tradition,” Arturo answers her, his thoughts going fondly to his first litter. He has not seen his adult children for some time and though this fills him with an aching sorrow he is undeniably proud of them. He has done his duty to them: he has raised them, he loves them and he has allowed them the freedom of spreading their wings and leaving the nest. They all survived to adulthood and thus Arturo believes that he must have done something right. “My name in Gaelic translates to strong as a bear,” There is a twitch of his lips into an ironic smirk. He is not built like a bear by any means of the imagination and there is great irony to be found in the sharp, svelte features he boasts; painting him as what he was: coywolf. “Dagny,” Arturo repeats softly to himself as Lotte makes her request known to him. Though none of his older children bear middle names he is not opposed to the idea; and of course he is not as he cannot imagine ever denying Lotte anything she asks of him! “It is lovely.” The low, breathy murmur is little more than a croon in the crook of her ear as he drinks in her scent again, unable to help himself. She is intoxicating to him always but especially so now and he feels as if there is no such thing as enough.

“I’ve always liked Mallaidh, Eirlys, and Muirin for girls,” Arturo muses thoughtfully, drawing in a soft breath. “Ceallach and Roarke for possible boy names.” There is a slight sheepish rise and fall of his broad shoulders that accompanies his ideas and for the fact that he has listed more girl names and boy. Though he loves all of his children equally he tends to have a soft spot for his daughters (if the manner in which he has spoilt Chusi is of any indication). “Lotte,” Her name leaves his lips like a trembling prayer and he nuzzles closer for a moment, thinking through his words before he makes his request for it is not one that he makes lightly. “I want you to stand beside me as my wife, as my equal in all aspects of our lives and if you accept it, I would like you to stand beside me as Teaghlaigh’s Banríon.” He has put much thought into this, and has admittedly imagined it several times since the first time she came to him on Teaghlaigh’s borders when he was still trying to get it off the ground.

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Lotte never shuts up! Sorry ♥

Cautiously Lotte lifted her head, watchful for signs of vertigo as she rearranged her limbs, her spine straight and her hindquarters sphinx-symmetrical. Better, she decided, arching and then stretching her thickly-furred neck. “‘Strong as a bear,’” she repeated thoughtfully, her moonbright argent eyes drifting with pleased appraisal over her mate’s long, svelte lines and tapered features. “You do not have Lærke’s build, but surely you are as fierce as he is,” she intoned, just in case he needed to be mollified, her mellifluous timbre having regained its steadiness. She preened at the fur at the base of one of his ears — they were of a taller and thinner construction than her own, and she was always very careful about them; certainly, she didn’t tug on them the way she tugged on Dagfinn’s — with a musing, meandering hum. “Muirin Dagny; Mallaidh Dagny; Eirlys Dagny…” Her humming took on a rhythm and a melody, and softly the nightingale sang for her gangster, her voice yet lacking its former richness.

“In Dublin’s fair city, where the girls are so pretty,
I first laid my eyes on sweet Molly Malone
as she wheeled her wheelbarrow through streets broad and narrow
crying, ‘Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!’

‘Alive, alive, oh!
Alive, alive, oh!’
Crying, ‘Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!’

She was a fishmonger, but sure ‘twas no wonder,
for so were her father and mother before,
and they wheeled their barrows through the streets broad and narrow,
crying, ‘Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!’

‘Alive, alive, oh!
Alive, alive, oh!’
Crying, ‘Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!’”

“Let one of them be Mallaidh,” she suggested, thinking of the fishmonger Szymon and his sprightly wife with a flash of sorrow, “and Eirlys — I have heard it said ‘ire-liss’ and ‘ayer-liss’ and never knew which way was the right way.” Lotte had the hard, rolling ‘r’ down pat, but the beginning vowel sound seemed to fall midway between /ī/ and /ā/ — despite her keen ability to pick up melodies and accents, “Will you humor me, rakas, and say it slowly?” entreated the songbird. “They are all such lovely names.”

Perhaps it was that ‘Roarke’ and ‘Lærke’ shared somewhat similar pronunciations, but Lotte found she liked the quick syllable and its hard consonant. “Roarke Fearghal,” she murmured, her lips tracing the curve of her lover’s ear as her blood began again to quicken. “Ceallach Fearghal.” It was so hard to choose between them! In the end, though, “Roarke Altaïr Fearghal?” she suggested, her inflection tipping upward. “You are a bear, but your son might be an eagle. Do you know the story of the herdsman and the weaver?” It wouldn’t be Lotte if she didn’t attach a ridiculous amount of lore and meaning to her children’s names, after all. “Someday we will have need for more names than we can readily think up,” she reassured herself, “so I will try not to be disappointed if we have only one.” Her chuckle was teasing, brushing tantalizingly against the sensitive fur that lined Arturo’s ear. “I would like it to be Roarke for a boy, Mallaidh for a girl, and Eirlys to be paired with Dagny — a snow child named after her winter-eyed uncle.” She sighed dreamily. “If he has to wait a year, Dag will understand.”

Lotte fell quiet — “finally, you blathering windbag,” her exhausted scribe exults — as Arturo prayerfully breathed her name and made his proposition. “Banríon,” she repeated sadly, sorrow being her first response for the lost, green-eyed girl. Furiosa’s memory came soon after: “Subordination doesn’t suit you. You know it’s the queens that bear the most worthy children, and you will be so well-suited for motherhood that a crown is just as well as yours. I mean, from those smart enough to see it — I’d give you one, if such a thing were up to me.” Remembering one was bad enough, but remembering both — the tears spilled over, lost in the black velvet of Lotte’s cheeks. “Of course I will,” she said fiercely, burying her face in the fur that covered his throat to blot away the moisture and breathe deeply of his scent, “and I have news for you, rakas.”

Rising to her restless paws, tracing a leisurely circle around her mate and deliberately trailing her tail along his jawline to entice him, Lotte willfully mixed business with pleasure. She told him of Skellige, Szymon, and Doe’s mysterious disappearance; of the stranded sheepdog and her three lambs, Isengrim, Julep, and Moorhen; and of the supposed disbandment or relocation of Silvertip Mountain. Too, she informed him of the existence of a pack about a day’s travel away from Teaghlaigh, nestled in a forest of evergreens, and a pack that made its home in a cave somewhere in the Sunspire Mountains. Finally she informed him of Duskvale’s disbandment and Dagfinn’s impending visit, finishing off with her kaksonen’s intention to stay for a prolonged time during Lotte’s pregnancy. By the time she’d finished, she felt as if she more than deserved her place at Arturo’s side — though perhaps that was the hormones talking — and casually set about initiating Round Two, nipping coyly at his hip and nibbling at the base of his tail.

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The feel of Lotte preening the fur at the base of his ear elicited a sharp, rasping gasp from Arturo who was so easily re-intoxicated. Of course Lotte was always intoxicating to him but his desire to make love to her again and again is unfairly heightened by the succulent scent of hormones her body is giving off. He cannot help it any more than she can. Though he is strong enough to turn away the scent of heat when presented to him by other females (in fact he had done it soon after Teaghlaigh’s conception) he will not resist Lotte. She sang for him, her voice different than he remembered but far from unpleasant and he closed the fierce burn of his irises from the world as he let her words soothe over him like a lullaby though Arturo is far from tired. “It can be said any way that you prefer it but I have typically heard it said ire-liss.” He murmurs in honor of her request, slowing down his pronunciation of the name. In truth, he does not think there is a wrong way to pronounce the name and that, instead, it is simply preference.

Though he is attentive to the words she speaks Arturo finds it hard to concentrate as he feels her lips trace the curve of his ear. “I do believe I promised to give you as many children as you want.” Though neither of them could control the size of the litters they created together, they could always plan for more in the corresponding year. “I do not think I have heard that story, no, but perhaps we can save it for another day.” Arturo encourages not because he isn’t interested (for he could sit and listen to her talk all day long) but because the slow burn of desire has returned to his abdomen and he wants to quench it (though he knows it will return many times during her cycle). He can feel it writhe within him creating something that is partial impatience and partial frustration yet he listens as she tells him all that she has learned, knowing that they could announce her ascension to his side as Queen of Teaghlaigh after they had a few more tumbles in the metaphorical bed for his concentration slips once more and he finds it very hard to focus on anything else.

He rises shortly after she does and is more than happy oblige to her desires communicated not by words but by the nips she leaves on his hip and at the base of his tail. It would be a long day and an even longer night but there is nothing else Arturo would rather be doing than spending every second he could with her.

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