Ravensblood Forest the one minute. the soldier's minute

The breath whooshed from Lotte’s lungs as Arturo collided with her. Mindful of the Ceannasach’s brilliant mind, she tipped back her head and turned her muzzle slightly to the side; it wouldn’t do to make her first gift to him a blistering concussion, after all. Long, soot-stockinged forelegs encircled the coywolf’s svelte frame with care as Lotte fell back and absorbed the brunt of the impact, pillowing Arturo’s black-masked face in the thick, luxurious ashen ruff that lined her throat and décolletage. It was fortunate for both wolves that the earth upon which Lotte landed was blanketed in emerald moss and long, silver-green grass — true to form, she hadn’t considered the consequences of her actions beforehand. Drawing breath, she spent it on a rather winded chuckle, gently caressing one tapered ear with a tender nibble of her incisors before smoothing an affectionate kiss over the Fearghal’s brow. “So you see, Ceannasach,” she said cheerfully — and a little breathlessly, “I am not fat like my brother the Bear. I am simply comfortable.” She wriggled beneath him appealingly, willing him to take note of the athletic musculature beneath all the fluff — and wondered why it suddenly mattered to her so much. Before Arturo she wished to showcase all of her skills — prowess in battle, speed and surefootedness, vocal acrobatics, the whole nine yards. She wanted to be significant to him — better than other females who were closer to him in proximity and loyalty. She was not of the Family and had no recourse to joining it — at least not until winter had run its course — but there was something in the embers of Arturo’s eyes that kindled an answering flame within her.

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They collided and fell to the earth something of a tangle of limbs — least this was how Arturo thought of it in the chaotic seconds in which gravity sank them to the hard earth as her legs circled him and she cushioned his fall. The gangster lingered there, content as he rubbed his muzzle against the thick, soft fur of her throat and the elegant curve of her chest. “Are you hurt?” He asked her as he felt her nibble on his ear. She had not made any sounds of pain and yet the gangster worried regardless; a soft sigh falling from his lips when he felt her place a kiss upon his brow. Arturo reveled in her attentions, in the closeness of her body still beneath his, in her kisses. Selfishly, the Ceannasach did not wish for this to end but he knew she would need to return to Donnelaith and that he would not beg her to stay here, with him. Not yet. Not until he had time with clarity and to think about all that had been spoken and all that transpired, that was transpiring and what it all meant to him.

Lotte spoke and she commanded the gangster's attention, as he shifted, placing his paws on either side of her as she wiggled beneath him in a tantalizing manner that stole his breath away. A low, appreciative noise rumbled in Arturo's throat, his ears cupping forth atop his skull at her words. He listened. He lifted his weight off of her, so that he loomed over her, staring down at her for a moment before he bowed his head so that he might brush his muzzle along the length of jaw, to place his muzzle close to her ear. “You are perfect, Lotte.” The smoky timbre of his deep, accented voice was a low, husky sound as he spoke to assure her that she was, indeed, perfect to him.

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“Are you hurt?” questioned the Ceannasach, and Lotte merely shook her head; she was as pleased with the orchestrated chaos of their tumble as she was with their current state and smiled impishly up at the black-masked gangster. A wicked glint of mischief set her moonbright eyes aglow as he rumbled appreciatively, but her expression turned briefly petulant as he lifted his weight from her body. It was on the tip of her tongue to command him to stay where he’d fallen — Lotte wasn’t naturally inclined to beg, after all — but she stilled her impertinent tongue and was rewarded with the brush of his slim, tapered muzzle against the length of her rounded jaw and the smoky timbre of his accented murmur in her ear.

“You are perfect, Lotte.”

“Certainly not,” she breathed, wondering at the electricity that rippled down her spine and caused her toes to flex and knead like a contented cat. She was familiar with seduction and feminine wiles as part of a role, but it was always an act — something to be used to gain information or advantage. This was different. New. The soot-stockinged hoyden could not understand why a wolf as grand as Arturo would find her perfect — it wasn’t that she lacked confidence. It was simply that she was first and foremost a twin; a sister; a pest; a tomboy with a mother’s nagging ways. She imagined a wolf like Arturo might find a partner in a streamlined, leggy creature with limbs so tapered and fine-etched they seemed stylized and otherworldly — with brilliant green eyes and ruddy red fur and an accent as bewitching as his own..

Not that she was about to let that impossible wolf steal away this moment, though.

Forcibly, Lotte shoved away the mental image, feeling bold and cheerful as she rolled to her stomach beneath Arturo, her hips between his thighs and her shoulders between his forelegs. Tipping her head back at an exaggerated angle, she arched up slightly so that her crown and the bridge of her muzzle drew flush with his chest and neck — “Arturo,” she began, her warm, rich alto just a little more tremulous than it normally was —

— and then an urgent howl cut through the air, drawing the argent-eyed female’s attention, not because it was directed at her but because it was directed at the wolf toward whom she felt a burgeoning possessiveness. Before she could fully register his reaction, she moved like a ghost, sidling out from beneath him with a fluid, athletic twist of limbs; and with a last brazen kiss upon his mouth, she melted into the shadows and struck out toward Donnelaith.