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

[table width=85%][tr][td]

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.

[/td][/tr][/table]