when the words leave her tongue, there's only silence. she stares at him and he back, blinking slowly as if to digest what she's said. for a moment she wants to jest further - have you forgotten the mothertongue? - but the tension is thick enough to slice with a claw and she can't bring herself to move, afraid to break the heavy emotion. afraid what comes after. she wishes that she could snatch the words back, tuck them between her teeth and gnash them into dust - but try as she might, she's no time traveler.

and @Hákon has, surely, heard them.

he finally reacts, the sound that rumbles from his chest and into his throat is enough to surprise her, inwardly. saga thinks initially she's insulted him but after a heartbeat realizes the sound for what is it: a purr. then you shall have it, he says as he shifts closer and her heartbeat hitches up into her throat, beating faster and faster. she's reading into this, so far into this, and she doesn't dare to think that their desires and thoughts align as they do: instead, she forces herself to try to accept what he's saying. that they, the sigrun, will have him. that the lagoon will have him. that anyone except saga sigrun, the seeing one, as a single entity will have him.

because brigid already does ( or so she believes ).

"ó. góður" she warbles absently, her eyes never leaving his face. she feels foolish, stammering out such a lackluster reply, but his own jaws are parting and the flash of his fang leaves her thinking he's more to say. but there's silence and she eases a half step close, leaning towards him despite herself. a paw lifts slowly, carefully, with claws pointedly retracted. it reaches for his face, toes trying to gently cup his jaw as she regards the scars littered there. "hef ég eyðilagt útlitið þitt fyrir brigid, skagos? she whispers, eyes going half lidded. she doesn't know that she's likely to ruin it all, bringing her up again - at least not in the way she thinks. reminding him of his betrothed time and time again isn't really a good flirtation concept - but saga hopes that by reminding herself she'll keep from crossing the line that is steadily becoming thinner and thinner before her.

ART BY BUNNY, CODE BY LARS

he steps closer but doesn't quite close the gap between them; he opens his mouth, but doesn't quite finish his thoughts. both would be an easy thing — easier than anything he's ever done — but, though he would never admit, he is afraid. if he missteps here, or has misjudged her ( or the churning in his chest ), it would be disastrous. so he walks right up to the edge without putting even a toe over the line, lest he get burned for it. it would not be the first time a sigrun woman has spurned him, but this one might just ruin him. despite her previous words, her answer is rather... lackluster. good, she says, simple as anything. ears tip forward then, expression almost hardening to hear it. that — that was it? immediately his brows pinch together, expression shuttering closed as he misreads both her reaction and the situation. that is, of course, until she too moves closer. this hesitant dance they do would typically be infuriating but for now, his heart simply pounds a feral beat in his chest — eying @Saga as she drifts closer and closer. close enough to touch, but she beats him to it. her paw is pressed, almost gently, against his face to cup his jaw and turn it towards her. he lets this happen — more than that, he almost leans into her touch, catching himself a moment too late, showing his hand as his gaze never wavers from her split features. no, he murmurs, voie as quiet as hers. það er engin brigid lengur. (there is no brigid anymore.). he answers with an arched brow, a mild sneer lifting his lips. but there's no heat behind it, not anymore — his broken betrothal seemed a long time coming, and it does not trouble him anymore. not with saga in front of him, his face so close to hers. ég vil hana ekki. ( i do not want her. ) did he ever? a cruel thought, and one that has no place here.

code by irish & art by tanzani

her response is wrong, she sees: but only because he doesn't read deep enough. her mask is too good and she curses herself for it. this isn't easy for her and never has been. she's been carefully locked away for so long, even with aki before his death and moreso after. this dance with a betrothed man has made it harder, made her face more careful and her emotions locked behind a thicker wall - but did she ever really expect a different outcome? she knew what she was doing the first day she pressed hard on the line of what was acceptable and what was not. his face turns to her, his jaw pressing very briefly into the cup of her paw, and a breathy exhale leaves her parted jaws. 'oh,' she thinks dumbly. 'oh.'

his eyes are steady on hers and he says: there is no brigid anymore. and, cruelly, her lips twist into a dark smile. she wonders why, how, and when but doesn't dare ask. she doesn't care enough, not really. only that he is free and that she is free and there is no bad blood should be bold and close the distance between them. she remains still and close with the sound of the ocean beside them going shh shh shh it's okay and her heartbeat is slowing to beat in time with the steadiness of it. things no longer feel awkward or rushed or wrong and there's a new ease to her muscles and she leans ever closer, tipping her own jaw to place her lips right at the edge of his chin. "and who do you want, hákon?" she wonders even as part of her protests: it might not be you. if she had known about calypso perhaps she wouldn't be taunting him or pressing her luck. perhaps she wouldn't have the cocky lilt of her lips or the heat in her gaze as her nose touches his jawline and she bite gently at his muzzle.

ART BY BUNNY, CODE BY LARS

The way she smiles should be a cruel sight, a red flag. But truthfully ( terribly ) he thinks nothing of it. Whatever your feelings he might have had regarding his betrothal fizzling out was certainly overshadowed by the idea of being free. Free to pick his own path, free to do what he wished. There was a worry in his chest, of course, that acting out against such blatant wishes might endanger him further down the line. But he was a man grown, and no longer a little boy beneath his mother's thumb: he'd take the risk and freedom both. How strange, then, that his path still seemed to entwine with the sigruns. He is certainly not complaining. Not when she leans even closer still, their breaths mingling. It'd be so easy to tilt his muzzle close enough to kiss, to bite -- and with @Saga, there is very little difference between the two. The paw at his jaw seems an anchor and he certainly does not shy away from leaning into it now as her words thrum in the scsnt distance between them. He feels them, more than hears them, and once again that growl-purr rumbles in his throat. A wordless answer, one that he does not think will be enough. And If I said you? He says, voice a quiet whisper. myndir þú halda mig veikan, saga? (would you think me weak, saga? ) ( because maybe he is. ) her teeth press to his muzzle, a queer inverse of the time she'd left a scar upon his face, and the fur along his spine stands up -- hackles raising as he leans forward. His motions are slow, easy -- he intends to lean into this smoldering heat between them. Sneaks a paw out to press along the inside of her front leg, attempting to apply a scant amount of pressure there. More of a suggestion to come closer than a demand, a quiet plea.

code by irish & art by tanzani

he makes that sound again and she shivers. her breath escapes her in a sigh, released along his jaw, and his words make the exhale sharper. almost scornful. her? though she longs to think it true she finds it hard. he scarcely remembered her before their re-meet at the shore and this? could be a moment of freedom twisting his wants and desires. she doesn't know him well enough to know if he lies, if he's willing to twist things to get what he wants. she's not keen to think so; hakon has always been a rather straightforward creature but it's hard for her to think that vellen has delivered what she wanted in a pretty package so easily. so available.

so when he wraps his limb to hers and she presses herself close, intending to meld her chest to his and turn her jaws to bite along his throat. teasing, threatening?, as she fights her wants and instead focuses on her mind: make your moves carefully she reminds herself carefully. "ég myndi segja sannaðu það, @Hákon." she thrums against his skin, if he doesn't pull away. it's more a purr than his own because she's not as gruff as he, even if she wishes she were. she feels as weak as he accuses himself of being.

this, she thinks, could destroy her far easier than fangs and claws.

and then, without giving him much more of a chance to react, she's retreating.

her paws push her away, backpedaling deliberately to put distance between them. her invitation to the pride lay clear for him and her challenge even clearer, still. for a moment she watches him, her jaws parted and eyes sharp, focused, despite the way her pupils dilate and the fog of the moment wants to press close. she forces it back, forces the uneven beating of her heart to slow and stretch out, become something that can leave her steady and composed once more.

"[ég er ekki auðveld verðlaun að vinna." she cautions - but she thinks he knows that. now, at least, if not before. part of her wants to be simpler, to fold into the moment and let go; but this isn't like with seneca. this isn't with a loss of her sense.

and this means so much more.

she says nothing else, then, and makes to leave without looking back and leaving him to do as he desires ( as if he would ever do anything less ).

exit, unless stopped

ART BY BUNNY, CODE BY LARS

He pulls and she comes with little fuss ( aside from the typical things he's come to expect from her ), and it's an easy thing to melt into her. She is warm where the air around them, salt-heavy and reminiscent of home. Still, when she puts her teeth at his throat he pauses -- full body going rigid, taut with tension. A good sort, though -- the kind that makes his paws curl, claws slipping from their sheathes. Even the one in the crook of her elbow, though he does not dig his claws in -- just rests them against her skin. Mutually assured destruction, maybe, with his hand hovering over the button. He likes it, though. Maybe not the teasing but certainly the threats, hidden behind her soft croons. And if he leans forward just a bit, angling his muzzle so more of his neck is exposed to her fangs.... well. He'd already said he was weak, didn't he? A fire burns under his skin, slow and steady -- a roaring bonfire of potential and it's easy to stay in this moment, before @Saga ruins it. His purring is low and rough, more akin to a growl than any darling sound. Yet when she pulls away it certainly becomes a growl -- a low, pointed thing that lilts up in a whine before quieting. The space she puts between them is meager, but pointed enough that it feels like a slap in the face. He lurches forward on his feet, pressing forward a half-step but comes no closer -- watching her with a wrinkled brow and a curling lip. If not for her words he might think she's played him for a fool, to lure him in so easily before pulling the rug. This interaction will play out differently in his memory when he realizes she's pregnant, when he makes the connection that she isn't quite so hard to get as she wants to believe. But for now he lingers, frustrated and endeared; a man denied, but delighted at the prospect of a hunt. He does not chase her, but certainly wants to as she makes her leave -- a desperate sort of churning in his chest. Still, he was a man of his word -- and would go to the lagoon, as she'd requested. In a bit, though -- he needed some time ( and space ) to clear his head. Frustrated and entranced, he huffs an irate noise to himself before heading in the opposite direction, hackles raised with prowling, pent up steps. Exit

code by irish & art by tanzani