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Content Warning: RP contains nudity and PG13 themes. No explicit content, but tread lightly.



On the morning that Detraeus woke in Taraho, deep in the blustery belly of Ayr, in a farmer’s barn with Araceli in his arms, the air was crisp and cool. It nipped at his exposed skin, even with four walls around them, but her body and breath were warm against him, and he wondered how he had come to this point. He threaded his fingers through her hair, traced the outlines of her scales, and counted the fragments of early dawn stealing their way through the cracks in the window shutter just to rest on the rise of her cheekbones, and he wondered: What had he ever done to earn this moment?

He heard the farmer’s approach before he arrived. In a moment, he was up, covering Araceli’s bared areas, and snatching up his staple blades as a precaution. When the knock sounded, he met the man at the door before it finished, filling the space of the opening and meeting his startled gaze with a flat stare. The man frowned.

“The woman you came with yesterday. She—” He paused, mid-statement, his gaze moving past Detraeus, inside along the line of early morning light spilling in from the doorway, on to the section of grains and bedding where Araceli was stirring. Detraeus’ tail flicked, wings stretching and eyeless stare narrowing. Daring the man to challenge it. After an extended pause, he cleared his throat, his frown deepening, but no words of objection left his lips. Instead, he said only: “Her things’ll be waiting for her. I, ah—you’re leaving, then, yes? ‘Cause you can’t stay here…”

“Yes.” Detraeus stretched his wings further, blocking the man’s view. “We are. And so are you.”

The farmer blinked, glancing back to him. It took only a moment to sink in, though, and afterwards, he pursed his lips, but shrugged. “No trouble.” And, without another word, he did.

Detraeus watched him intently, gaze following his back until he disappeared inside the main house. Immediately after, he shut the door, and returned to Araceli’s side. She — already standing and holding a segment of the bedding furs wrapped protectively over her breast — pulled him into a chaste kiss and he shut his eyes when it broke, lingering within inches of her lips as he grunted: “Clothes.”

She smiled and kissed his shoulder. “Yes. Clothes.”

Together, they moved out, her dressing and him strapping into his boots, the remainder of his weapons, and other travelling supplies. After retrieving her goods in turn from the house, they headed out before the sun had cleared its full length from the horizon, and turned south.

Detraeus lost track of the days.

It became so easy, so natural to live by the moment, just the two of them, and create the world sunrise by sunrise on their own rules, that he gave in to the desire to let that mentality take over. So it was that he wasn’t entirely sure how long later it was that they came upon Lake Irae, only that they came on it in midday, the sun glistening over its expansive waters, and that, given all its natural splendor, they of course found it a natural place to bring their travels to — at the very least — a brief pause.

When Detraeus envisioned a break, he assumed food, rest, and perhaps some limited sight seeing around the lake’s edge. As they closed in on the bank, he began setting down the heavier portions of his gear — bedding, climbing supplies, food, etc. — with this in mind. When he turned to glance back at Ara, the last thing he anticipated was to find her mid-strip at the water’s edge, and he sputtered on whatever he might have said.

“Ara.” He looked away, attention immediately darting around to ascertain that they were indeed alone — paranoid that, despite past experience thus far, this would of course be the moment someone or something unwelcome would intrude on them. Once more or less satisfied that they at least had the space to themselves, he glanced fleetingly back at her, gaze only lingering for a moment before he diverted it again and cleared his throat. “What…are you doing? If something attacks us…”

Naked.

Fight…na—?

Just as the full implication of the words sank in — and as Detraeus was simultaneously bombarded with a mental image of exactly what such a thing might look like, which he did not need the distraction of at present — he shook his head sharply and rushed forward, desperate to stop her before she got that far. “No—nono, Ara, wait—”

But, too late.

Her undergarments cut him off mid-sentence, and he stumbled halfway into a step. Squeezing his eyes shut not a moment too soon to bar the view of — well — all of Ara, a half-strangled sound butted up against the back of his throat, and his pulse lodged itself there: face burning, tail twitching, and teeth grit. He drew a breath, and released it. After a mental prayer to his goddess, he opened his mouth, all but fully willing to stoop to pleading that she return to the shoreline and dress. Or at least bathe in something. Her undergarments, perhaps?

Unfortunately, before he made it to that request, hers interrupted him, cutting up his train of thought.

“Ah—hha…nnh?” He blinked, taking a moment to absorb the question, and then — if possible — blushed hotter. “Can…what?”

“Help…?”

He made an uninterpretable sound and turned his back to the lake, hand drawing down over his already shut eyes and then pinching at the bridge of his nose. When he mumbled, it came out as something vaguely akin to an assurance that he would “stand guard” instead, though not all of those words came clear either.

Wincing, Detraeus swore beneath his breath.

Something was wrong with him. He knew that much. It was just hard…

But Araceli was right. He had gone further than this before. She wasn’t pushing him. And if it was indeed nothing more than bathing, he wouldn’t hurt her. Or, so he insisted to himself. It would be fine. He could do this. It was something Ara wanted from him. Drawing a slow breath, he bit at his lip and crouched. After unfastening his boots, he toed them off, stepped onto the damp rocks and mud at the river bank, and began removing most of the rest of his weapons: bow, quiver, swords, throwing knives. He left his daggers at his hips, and kept his pants on before wading out into the water.

His tail twitched, spines rippling at the chill, but he persisted until he stood at Ara’s back. Tempering the pace of his breath as it attempted to go wild in his lungs, he murmured as he reached up, guiding her wet hair carefully clear of her back and the nape of her neck: “You’ll be the death of me yet, sky princess…pass me your soap.”

“Mm.” Detraeus moved slowly, lathering his hands and then bringing his fingers to a light, uncertain perch on the rise of her shoulder blades.

She was beautiful.

He had known it before this moment, of course. Known it before he so much as tolerated her presence, and was reminded of it again each day. But in this particular instance, it seemed a marvel, a miracle, and a raw stroke of insanity that she stood before him, not only refraining from withdrawing, but encouraging his touch. Beads of lake water glistened like tiny teardrops along her skin, and her scales glimmered like decorative armor.

Gradually, let his hands rest more thoroughly against her. Then, drawing them down in painstakingly gentle, sweeping strokes he began to spread the lather and do as asked. When he finished, he passed back the soap and cupped his hands, ladeling several palmfuls down over her back. The water rippled down her skin, slipping over scales and between her wings, ushering away the suds to leave a bare canvas once more. He curbed the uncalled for urge to touch his lips to the wet curve of her shoulder. Instead, he brought his hands to a standstill, fingertips coming to a barely-there rest at either side of her hips.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, this time aloud, letting the weight of the words fill the air between them. “Why do you let me touch you…”

Detraeus stiffened at first, intimately aware of every point of contact between them. Like lightning, burning. As she held the position, though — traced patterns over his hands and held him there, against her — he gradually relaxed into it, accustoming himself to the weight and warmth of her folded into his arms. It was familiar, in a way, despite the specialty of these circumstances in particular, and eventually he shut his eyes, tucking his face just beneath the base of her horns and breathing her in. His brow furrowed with a thought.

He knew before he asked it that he shouldn’t. Knew what he would hear. Knew it would hurt.

But he could not resist. In this, perfect instant, he had everything he could possibly wish for, and so, as any foolish man in the same position would, he of course asked for more. “We wouldn’t have to leave…” he said. “You and I, we could stay here. We could live like this.”

Detraeus expected a no.

He’d never learned to expect any different, and in this case he knew better. Knew she had a life that she wanted to get back to, even if this was every escape from every demon he could ever ask for. He couldn’t fairly expect her to give everything up for him, and didn’t. When the first words left her mouth, though — “Oh Detra…I would love nothing more than to do just that…” — he felt his pulse stutter on a startled, entirely thrown beat, and for a moment, in spite of everything he told himself, he felt a ludicrous flicker of hope.

Then, of course, came, “…but I can’t…” and his chest dropped, the hope knotting into a pebble that ached in his throat.

He shut his eyes and shook his head, not much hearing the rest of what she had to say since he knew it all anyway. He opened his mouth to tell her it was fine. It was fine. But he couldn’t push breath through his throat or convince his tongue to move, so he cupped his fingers beneath her chin and drew her into a kiss instead. Firm and deep: he held her mouth to his while his heart burned until the burn eased, tangled his fingers into her wet hair and reminded himself that without her he may never have learned the distinction between ‘lack of pain’ and genuine happiness. He kept his eyes shut until he knew he could meet her stare without faltering.

“Come,” he said, brushing his thumb up the curve of her left cheek, just missing the scar there. “Clothes.” He notched his head towards the shore. The water was too chilled to remain long anyway.