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Her pulse is ringing in her ears as she runs, one foot in front of the other, her bare feet making little pat pat pat sounds against the soft spring grass that covers the forest floor. Green eyes flick this way and that, searching for some sort of shelter she might use to evade her pursuers, but each niche comes up short when measured against her short checklist for suitable hidey-holes. Hollow interior of a rotting tree trunk? Large enough, but also too easily accessible. Patch of thorned bushes? Might block her scent, but also too easily cut out of the way. She almost pauses beside a small, murky pond, complete with dried reeds scattered around its banks, but thinks better of it as she hears the snap of a branch nearby, and takes off sprinting with renewed vigor.
Thinking and sprinting are both simple tasks which will soon be beyond her increasingly limited capacities, L’lo reminds herself, and grits her teeth as she darts between a pair of close-growing trees, with gnarled vines weaving about their trunks. The more convoluted a path she can leave, the harder it will be for her hunters to follow her scent, powerful though it may be at this time of year. The miqo’te ducks beneath a curtain of willow tree branches, brushing the leaves with her hands to drench them in the smell of her, carding her fingers through some of the leaves before she’s off again like a bolt, bobbing and weaving through a complicated tangle of young birch trees, before angling for a section of the forest that looks older, thicker - more difficult to navigate in, if you’re some bulky thing chasing a nimble little miqo’te in heat.
There is only so much L’lo can do to simulate the thrill of a heat like her ancestors might have experienced, but this heat is, perhaps, the closest she has come so far. Her blood is singing with adrenaline and lust, primal instincts driving her to flee as fast and as far as she can from her potential mates, to make them earn the privilege of breeding her full of their kittens. There will be no kittens, as she leads a dangerous life as the Warrior of Light, but by the Twelve, it feels good to think like there will be. To think about a mate catching her, claiming her with teeth and nails, filling her up with their seed until she can barely move, whispering filth into her overheated ears -
Oh yes. This simulated hunt is very much to L’lo’s tastes. It is not very often that she gets the chance to run from something she knows will not end her, should she fail to evade it. To run from something she wants to catch her. From someone. And all of the someones in this forest with her today… are someones she would relish spending her heat with. Only the finest of predators to chase down the finest of prey - the Warrior of Light herself. Hand-picked by her, the list reviewed by some of her closest confidantes, and the shortlist verified with L’lo’s dearest friends, guarding the forest at this very moment, intent on allowing her this brief respite from the weight of the world.
For one thing, she can be all but certain that whoever catches her will indeed be a worthy mate - not that she has any intention of keeping them past this hunt, this heat. She can be certain because she has only extended the invitation to this hunt to those who she would relish submitting to, in her most vulnerable hours. Warriors of the highest caliber, met at various stages in her own prodigious adventuring career, each invited personally to join in this hunt, for a chance to spend a heat with the vaunted Warrior of Light.
It’s a win-win situation, for everyone involved. Especially for her, L’lo thinks, a feral grin curling her lips as her ears twitch back, picking up the sound of not one, but two pursuers, somewhere close behind her. She cheats, just a little, and darts around the gnarled trunk of an old tree, sinking her claws into the moldering bark. L’lo hauls herself up the side of the tree, bare hands and feet gripping at knobs in the trunk as they are available, and coerl-like claws on her fingers and toes digging her own holds into the trunk when they are not. The miqo’te stops only when she has reached the first bough large enough to support her weight that is surrounded by a good amount of leaves, enough to shield her should one of her hunters take a cursory look up into the branches.
L’lo has to resist the urge to snort as her pursuers pause, eyeing each other warily on the ground just below where she crouches, waiting. Lord Hien of Doma and Lord Speaker Aymeric of Ishgard both stand there, eyeing each other warily, both men reaching for weapons that were confiscated before L’lo was released into the forest. She could laugh, watching their hands clasp around nothingness at their waists, and their expressions morph from tense to a sheepish sort of truce.
“Lord Hien,” Aymeric speaks first, folding his hands behind his back, and nodding to Hien, respectfully, if not amicably. It’s comical, watching both men fight with their baser instincts in such a primal situation, to maintain some semblance of civility.
Hien nods in return, offering Aymeric a tiny, self-assured smile. “Lord Speaker.”
The two men stare each other down then, a silent battle for dominance being fought with their eyes alone, until Aymeric shrugs a shoulder, slipping his hands into the pockets of the simple trousers he had opted to wear for the event. L’lo must admit, there is something thrilling to her, seeing the Lord Speaker of Ishgard dressed so casually. She contents herself for the moment with a lick of her lips. "I don't suppose... you would be amenable to... working together?" Aymeric suggests, his voice tight, but only because she knows him so well. To Hien, his taller counterpart likely sounds the very voice of reason. "...and sharing the prize?"
L'lo's heart skips a beat at the suggestion. Her first reaction is to be affronted - two men, deciding her fate like she's some sort of possession? But her heat is rising, and ultimately, her blood rushes down to her core instead of to her cheeks at the thought of Hien and Aymeric, cradling her between them and taking care of her every need, working together, just for her... Besides, if she had not wanted to be treated like a possession, she would never have organized this little... treasure hunt. No, she decides ultimately, peering curiously down at Hien to see his response, she is not angry at all at the thought of being shared by two of her hunters. Two of her favorites, if she is being honest with herself.
The Doman Prince chuckles, folding his arms over his chest and seeming to appraise Aymeric for a moment before he speaks. "Two pairs of eyes are better than one," Hien agrees after a pregnant moment of silence, inclining his head towards Aymeric. "Very well. I accept."
The Lord Speaker grins, extending a hand to Hien, which the Doman Prince clasps firmly, the two men shaking just once before releasing each other's hands, and falling into step beside each other. Aymeric is the first to offer the information he has gathered thus far about the Warrior of Light's location, and Hien nods along while the elezen speaks, before contributing his own observations as the pair pass from out of L'lo's sight.
Estinien drops from a tree adjacent to the one L'lo crouches in, and the miqo'te has to clasp a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing aloud. She watches, shaking with silent mirth as the Azure Dragoon mocks Aymeric beneath his breath, complete with hand motions, before setting off in the same direction her other two hunters had departed in. Of course Estinien wouldn't play fair. She had guessed as much when inviting him, but had not yet known how the dragoon might go about ducking the hunt's rules. The miqo'te shakes her head, reaching up to wipe a tear of mirth from the corner of her eye as Estinien skulks out of her sight. His impression of Aymeric is spot on, she thinks to herself, tucking that observation into the back of her mind for further study once she can think more clearly again, when her heat is over.
She waits several more minutes, for her three hunters to have made good progress - in the wrong direction - before she leaps down from the tree branch she had been perched upon. Her formless linen shift flutters as she straightens up, bare toes flexing against the decaying leaves coating the forest floor. She does not hesitate once on her feet, and sets off at a jog for the other side of the forest, back towards where the hunt had started. Her hunters, she reasons, will be trying to cover as much ground as possible, likely having assumed that she will have run as far and as fast as possible. It will take them time to circle back around the forest and search for her where they had all first stepped into the designated hunting grounds. None of them are miqo'te themselves, and so none of them will be able to track her by scent alone, but L'lo still drags her hands along every tree trunk she passes, imagining that they can, all but begging for one of them to pick up her trail. After witnessing Aymeric and Hien's exchange, some of the thrill of the hunt has disappeared, which L'lo finds herself surprisingly resentful about when she pauses, one hand against a willow tree's trunk, to think about why that is.
The point of this hunt is to allow her the kind of careless freedom she can never indulge in out there, in the real world. One misstep, one slip, one wrong word, and in the real world, she could meet her end. This hunt was meant to be a reprieve from that stress. A chance to make mistakes, to indulge in her vulnerability, to let someone else step up when she falters. It is almost disappointing, then, to see how even those she holds in the highest of regards can be so easily outwitted. She still maintains most of her good sense, her survival instincts, her natural propensity towards erring on the side of caution, but her control is steadily slipping. Slick is pooling between her bare legs, her cheeks have acquired a flush she cannot seem to lose, and her head is spinning at even the suggestion of one of her hunters catching up to her and claiming her.
How much further gone must she be before evading her hunters becomes a real challenge? How much longer must she wait to be truly challenged? How much must she dull her own senses, before any of her hunters can even keep up with her, let alone best her?
L'lo allows herself one tiny, frustrated little snort, before she is shaking her head and setting off again, striding purposefully through the forest. It had been unrealistic to think this would be some fantastic, lively chase the whole time, she thinks, fighting to quell the resentment that she can't quite shake. After all, heat or no heat, she is the Warrior of Light. But even thinking the title leaves a bitter taste in her mouth, and L'lo is rolling her eyes even as she loses her balance for a moment, having caught a toe against a protruding tree root. She catches herself easily, one hand against the offending root's trunk, and stops moving to glare down at the root, as though expressing her frustration to it might somehow improve her thus-far unsatisfactory suitors.
She almost sits down right there, out in the open, but her ears twitch as she registers movement out of the corner of one eye, slitted pupils dilating as she turns to try to make out the shape in the shadows of the trees to her left. A gloved hand darts out of the thick brush beside her and seizes the hem of her linen shift, holding it in a deathly tight grip before inexorably tugging her into the brush with it. She yelps and brings the side of her hand down on the linen shift hard, hard enough that between the pressure from her hand and the way she leans out of the powerful grasp, her hand tears right through the linen, leaving a jagged scrap of it in her attacker's hand, but freeing her to escape.
L'lo sets off at a dead sprint, adrenaline pumping through her veins anew as she catches sight of a humanoid figure tearing out of the brush behind her, hears the crackle of dry leaves underfoot. Her heart leaps in her chest at the sound of pursuit, heavy footsteps no longer making any effort to conceal themselves as her hunter gives chase, tearing after her through the forest. She feints around the trunk of an ancient tree, then takes off in the opposite direction, away from the entrance to the forest once more. Her pursuer does not falter, steady footfalls growing ever louder as they gain ground, causing L'lo's lips to split into a manic grin. This... this is the hunt she has been aching for.
Oh, how her blood sings to be chased so, challenged so, she thinks, nimbly dancing through the forest, ever ahead of her pursuer, but just by a step. This one does not lose her when she hoists herself up into trees, or traverses the forest bough by bough rather than step by step. It makes her purr with contentment, relishing the ache in her muscles as she maintains her constant flight, cognizant of what a proficient hunter her pursuer is, something they prove to be true by simply keeping up with her. A good hunter, with excellent stamina. Being as often in dangerous places as L'lo is, she is in peak physical form, and so too must be her pursuer, to remain so closely on her heels for what feels like hours. She executes every evasive maneuver she has ever learned, dutifully trying to escape her hunter, even if that is the very last thing she wants, her core dripping with need for this apex predator.
As the night wears on, L'lo finds her limbs growing heavier, her blood wanting only to flow to one place - between her legs. Her tail has puffed up with alarm and refuses to settle back down, so close is her hunter on her heels at all times. The miqo'te's vision has begun to blur every now and again, which she does her best to remedy with periodic rubs against her knuckles, which enjoy less and less success as the stars gradually pass overhead. She is sweating freely, her linen shift long-since soaked through, and harbors one single niggling thought about dehydration that is largely edged out by other thoughts, like lust, and sex, and fullness... While the rest of her is dripping with sweat, L'lo's thighs are thoroughly coated in her slick. The sheer pleasure of being truly tested, truly pushed to her limits, has her all but squirming with need, and that's before she stops to think about the frighteningly arousing amount of stamina her pursuer has. Sooner or later, she knows, she will falter, make a mistake, take a wrong step - and her hunter will pounce . And by the Twelve, she cannot recall anything she has ever been so excited for.
Her stamina does eventually begin to flag, allowing her hunter to gain on her, until she can feel their heavy footfalls impacting the ground behind her through the sensitive soles of her feet. She grits her teeth and redoubles her pace as she feels them snatch at the hem of her linen shift once more, then hurls herself to one side, tucking her head and tail in close to her body as she somersaults down a steep dip in the forest floor. The miqo'te is covered in forest floor detritus as she springs back to her feet, but the debris drips off with her sweat or is tugged away by the gentle evening breeze as she continues in her fevered flight. L'lo does not bother to conceal her intent as she darts through the tiny forest stream that flows through the cleave in the forest floor, splashing up water as she runs, arms and legs pumping to propel her across the rocky, slippery terrain. She barely registers the scrape on the bottom of her foot as she leaps out of the streambed and onto a rock protruding from the opposite side of the embankment from where she had entered the stream, sweaty hands scrambling for purchase against the jagged stone.
Her ears are still twitching with sounds of her hunter's pursuit as she hauls herself onto the rock and crouches, panting, listening. Sounds of her hunter are noticeably quieter now, and the miqo'te lets out a breathless little chuckle as she launches herself from the rock, landing hard on the forest floor, and immediately taking off once more at a dead sprint. Her heartbeat is the loudest thing she can hear now, and L'lo smiles like a madwoman at the sight of a tangled mess of old trees, each bearing heavy curtains of ivy, just ahead of her. What an excellent place to stop, to rest, to nest, to be caught... She steadies her breath and pushes herself just that much harder, even though she can barely hear her pursuer still diligently following behind her. The miqo'te darts past ivy-cloaked tree after ivy-cloaked tree, leading her hunter on a merry little chase, one that L'lo grows only more certain as time passes will result in the best heat she's ever had the pleasure of experiencing. On instinct alone, her eyes dart about the trunks and boughs drenched in vines of ivy, searching for the perfect little patch of ground to settle down in, to spread her legs in, to be consumed-
Her survival instincts, honed to a knife's edge, kick in then, her heels digging into to soft earth beneath her. It is not an impulse on her own part, or at the very least, not a conscious one. She skids to a complete stop, sweat dripping into her eyes now that the wind is no longer caressing her face, now that she is no longer running. An owl hoots in the distance, and L'lo's ears twitch in the direction of the sound, before focusing on her pursuer once more, and... hearing nothing. Her tail whips furiously from side to side as she spins in place, eyes darting between the tree trunks decked with vines, searching for any sign of movement that is not her own. How could she have lost her hunter? Surely her crossing the stream could not have been such an impediment to her pursuer...
Every muscle in L'lo's body is trembling as she stands there, unable to remain fully still, shifting from foot to foot as she drips sweat and slick onto the decaying leaves beneath her, ears straining. She swipes an arm across her brow, chest heaving for breath, every coherent thought still in her head screaming at the total silence. Why was it so silent? Where had her hunter gone? The miqo'te bounces anxiously on the balls of her feet as she grapples with her instincts for control over her frozen body. Why had she stopped in the first place? What had changed to make her aware of the lack of sounds of pursuit?
A looming form cloaked in shadow steps out from behind a tree several yalms in front of her. L'lo spins on instinct alone, even as her core throbs with arousal - hunter, stealthy, deadly, dangerous - tearing off in the opposite direction, her heart frantically attempting to beat its way up her throat at the surprise encounter. That's why she had stopped. A new (or newly noticed) stitch in her side has the miqo'te clutching at her waist and gasping for air as she propels herself back across the forest stream in one long leap, limbs windmilling as if to expedite her flight. L'lo scans the area around her as soon as she lands on the opposite embankment and staggers back to her feet, noting the sounds of pursuit increasing in volume behind her. Hiding place. Nest, her blood seems to sing. She needs a hiding place. She needs a nest. Narrow saplings ahead. Shrubs beside them. Clusters of rocks further in. Dense patches of tall grass past the rocks. Wizened old tree... Perfect.
She bolts for the gargantuan tree amidst its markedly younger compatriots without thinking twice, hoping to scale its branches and hide herself away somewhere amidst its boughs, just long enough for her to regain her strength. Her pursuer this time is far more adept than the three she had left behind at the beginning of the hunt, and that shadow she had seen by the ivy grove also looked markedly larger than any of those three men. L'lo's mind, increasingly clear of any thoughts save nest, refuses to cooperate as she struggles to cross-reference her invitation list with the looming shadow she had nearly collided with earlier. She is forced to push such thoughts to the back of her mind as she reaches the ancient old tree, leaping up and sinking all four sets of claws into its storied bark, clinging there for a moment to be certain her footholds are stable, before she begins to climb.
It is a graceless ascent, more of a clamber, really, and L'lo is gasping for breath by the time she reaches a niche in the tree and hurls herself inside, breast heaving from the exertion. She can feel old bird droppings and brittle eggshells digging into her back through the soaked linen of her shift, which is clinging uncomfortably to her now that she has finally stopped running. The miqo'te tucks her feet up into the niche with the rest of her body and clutches at the stitch in her side, willing her breath to calm and her heart to slow so she can begin to listen anew for her pursuer. Several seconds pass in utter silence save for the sounds she herself makes, and L'lo is soon able to push herself up onto her hands and knees, and scrutinize her new hiding - nesting? - place.
The nook she had hauled herself up into, on closer examination, is much larger than she had previously thought. Being of the Twelveswood, she had known the tree was massive - larger around than she could circle with the arms of every Scion, hands linked together. But the hole that she has hidden within appears to have been painstakingly carved out by one massive beak, a very long time ago, if the amount and different stages of moss around its mouth have anything to say. It is roughly circular, with a floor that curves up sharply into the walls where edges in a room might ordinarily go, and it is tall enough that she could probably stand, at her meager height of 4 fulms and 10 ilms, although most others would struggle. The nook is also surprisingly clean, given where it is, only covered in a fine layer of dried leaves, ancient bird droppings, and various twigs and eggshells.
Her first instinct is to clean the space out - nest, settle, wait for mate, spread legs - but L'lo tamps viciously down on that thought, stuffing it to the back of her mind and instead crawling towards the far side of the former nest, determined to settle down here and wait out her mysterious master hunter. She wipes a forearm across her forehead, still dripping with sweat from both her extended run and her building heat, and chews on the inside of her lower lip, struggling to remember how close her pursuer had seemed when she began her perilous ascent up the wizened tree. Even should they have been close, she tries to reassure herself, any of her hunters would struggle to scale such a behemoth tree, especially to the height at which she had hidden herself away. Her claw marks in the bark would be obvious to anyone who drew close enough, but that was a small price to pay for such a secure place to hide away from unworthy suitors.
L'lo is almost disappointed as she sags against the back of the niche in the tree, resolving herself to a miserable heat spent alone, up a tree of all places. And after such a delicious hunt, too... it's a Twelve-damned shame. Her breathing calms, her heart's frantic beat slows back to something much closer to its usual pace, and the miqo'te sighs quietly, shifting her spine in a bid to find a more comfortable angle to relax against the smooth wall of her hideyhole. The miqo'te can feel the thrill of the chase in her blood falter and die, and this is what draws a whimper from her, the loss of adrenaline from her veins, her hunt all but over. She closes her eyes, wrapping her arms about her chest and bringing her knees up to tuck her chin against them, settling in for a long night. She could wait for one of her hunters to locate the tree she has tucked herself so neatly away in, she reasons, but the thought makes her sag where she sits. That would help her pass her heat, certainly, but her hunter would not have earned it. It wouldn't feel as... real, as feral.
Feral like the gaze that greets her when L'lo opens her eyes, having been prompted to do so by a peculiar shiver racing up her spine.
The eyes that stare back at her are a pale cornflower blue, barely visible rings about a set of endless black pupils, half hidden by disinterested eyelids with eyelashes far too long for their owner's own good. A striking nose lies just above a pair of delectable lips, curled into a victorious little smirk, just shy of gloating. There is even a faint flush on her hunter's cheeks, all the way up to those formidable cheekbones, which L'lo can only make out thanks to her keen eyes. But most prominent of all is the third eye in the center of his forehead, framed by long blond hair.
"A fine little hunt you have arranged here, dear beast," Zenos yae Galvus purrs, blocking the only exit from the tree with his hulking frame, still gargantuan in comparison to her own, even without his standard armor. He is perched, crouching, on a bough just below the entrance to the once-nest, a scrap of familiar linen fabric dangling from two gloved fingers, as his other hand grips the rim of the nook, holding onto it either for balance or to bar her escape or both.
L'lo's heart all but leaps into her throat, but a part of her preens under her enemy's intense gaze, her baser instincts recognizing him as the worthy mate she has been waiting for. She has to fight with herself to keep her legs from spreading for him, and ends up crossing her feet at the ankle as she shifts in place, an uncomfortably persistent need throbbing in her core as she observes Zenos. He is sweating too, and not unaffected by the thrill of the chase if the bulge in his plain black trousers is anything to go by. L'lo actually licks her lips at the sight of it, before she manages to reign herself in and turn her gaze back up to those cold blue eyes, the eyes of an apex predator.
Zenos clicks his tongue, leaning back away from the entrance to the once-nest, like he might actually leave if she asked him to. The Garlean prince reluctantly tears his eyes from her, mess that she must be, white linen shift torn and soaked through, her whole body flushed and eager. "I learned you were organizing a hunt and I could not help myself," he admits, adopting a careless expression as he turns back to L'lo, and shrugs a shoulder. "Not my usual kind of hunt, granted, but with you as my opponent, I suspected this would be worth my time. And it was ," he says earnestly, his eyes lighting up at just the mention of competing against her.
L'lo arches an eyebrow at Zenos, her enemy. Her friend, if Zenos has his way. Her enemy, who she should be so much more concerned about being cornered by, hundreds of fulms off the ground, in the middle of the Twelveswood where no one can hear her screams. Her mind takes a moment to catch up, and then she flushes even more deeply, squirming where she sits in a growing puddle of her own sweat and slick. Zenos has accomplished what all her officially invited hunters have failed to do. He has her cornered, isolated, and dripping with need. L'lo would not lie and say she had not at least briefly considered adding the Imperial Prince's name to her invitation list. But owing to the fact that she hated him, and he was a dangerously violent individual, not to mention the overall feelings the other Scions harbored for Zenos... she had never so much as written his name down on a preliminary list. She had simply kept it tucked in the back of her mind as... an option for some other version of her, in some other world. And yet here they both are.
Zenos tilts his head to one side, observing the miqo'te he has trapped silently for a moment before speaking. "I will go, my friend, my enemy, if you ask it of me. I did not come here to harm you," he says, holding up his gloved hands to show that they are empty, even letting the scrap of her shift flutter to the floor of her nest nook. "I came for the hunt, and to see that you were cared for as masterfully as possible, so as to hasten your return to full strength. And now that I have caught you, I will happily release you if that is what you desire. I will face you again in battle one day. When you are at your best. Not while you are weak like this, through no choice of your own. When I defeat you, I will earn it."
He sounds so sure of himself, so earnest. L'lo's core throbs with every word Zenos speaks, not so far gone that the meaning of his words are lost on her heat-addled mind. He will go, if she asks him. That... that is important to her. That even one of her bitterest enemies will submit to her will here, the trembling will of a mind half-wild with lust and need. Perhaps more than half, now that she is truly considering the predator before her. Zenos has caught her, after all. He is the only one who has proven able to track her, to keep up with her, to follow her even through the most difficult terrain of the forest, to her current perch, so unattainably isolated. He is the hunter she arranged this event to find. To fuck.
She hesitates a mere moment longer, before taking the plunge, and pushing herself forward onto unsteady hands and knees, her tail flicking playfully behind her as she crawls towards Zenos. Her throat locks up at the mere sight of the man she has fought so bitterly in the past, but L'lo has plenty of other ways in which to invite the Garlean to join her, ways that require no words at all. She preens as she watches Zenos' eyes trail over her body, disheveled and filthy though she is, his hunger blatant and undiminished. Her linen shift is all but transparent now that it is so soaked with her sweat and arousal, and clings to some parts of her body, but hangs loosely in others - like below her breasts as she crawls steadily towards Zenos, her core throbbing with fresh arousal at the thought of finally being taken by a worthy mate. She can feel the path his eyes follow along her breasts like a physical touch, imagines his calloused fingers in place of his gaze, and bites down on her lower lip as she moans, closing the last of the distance between them.
L'lo sits back on her heels and takes Zenos' gloved hand in her own, and bites down on his middle finger, nibbling at his fingertip. The Garlean jumps at the feeling of her teeth on his digit, his expression shifting to one of obvious arousal, lips curling, eyes narrowing down at her. She clamps her teeth around the leather of his glove, and gently tugs it free of his skin. She tosses the glove into the nook behind her using her teeth, and smirks at Zenos as she takes two of his fingers into her mouth, working her tongue expertly around the lengthy digits, and relishing in the growl the Imperial Prince lets out at the sensation. Her predator requires no further coaxing, and L'lo delights in his powerful grasp on her waist as he lifts her bodily up with his gloved hand, shoving her back against the wall of the nest-nook hard enough to knock the air from her lungs. He crawls in after her, fully blocking her escape with his hulking body - not that she would want to escape him now.
When he withdraws his hand from her waist, L'lo whimpers pitifully, the sudden coldness she can feel without the touch of a mate cutting straight through her arousal. Zenos tuts quietly, chuckling as he shakes his head down at her, sitting back on his heels as he undoes each of the buttons on his plain black shirt. "Patience, my beast..." he purrs, smirking as he watches L'lo squirm where she sits, legs spread eagerly, waiting for him. "I know what you need. And I will give it to you."
He slides the shirt off when the last button is undone, letting it fall to the floor of the nook somewhere as he looms over L'lo, holding himself up over her with his arms bracketing her body. There is hardly a scar marring his muscled torso, and the miqo'te reaches up eagerly, allowing her calloused hands, tiny compared to his own, to map out the smooth planes of his chest. She shivers each time Zenos' muscle ripples beneath her fingertips, either from arousal or perhaps simply being touched, wriggling her hips down until the underside of her thighs collide with the Garlean's knees, still frustratingly clothed. L'lo reluctantly pries a hand away from her hunter's chest to scratch at his clothed leg with her claws, and startles herself as Zenos jumps when a claw catches on the thigh of his trousers. He growls deep in his throat, surging down to capture L'lo's lips in a bruising kiss, and she keens into his mouth, bucking and writhing and gasping as she clings to Zenos however she can, with legs and claws and hands.
When her hunter finally pulls back to breathe, L'lo meets his lust-blown gaze with one of her own and nods quickly once she realizes he is waiting for her to say something. This appears to be all the consent Zenos needs, as he growls again, feral smirk gracing his lips, and he reaches down for the collar of her shift, then tears it open straight down the middle. L'lo feels a sharp stab of arousal at the blatant display of strength, and is too weak to do anything but writhe in place as she watches Zenos sit back on his heels and clamber gracelessly from his trousers, hurling them aside with his discarded shirt. He wears nothing beneath his trousers, a discovery that makes L'lo gasp, her head spinning at the sudden rush of blood between her legs.
Zenos is delightfully proportionate, his exceeding height and musculature translating cleanly into what might be the most satisfying cock L'lo has ever laid eyes upon, let alone had the privilege of fucking. Her mouth waters at the sight of him, and judging by his throaty chuckle, he does not miss the way she licks her lips. Before she can act, her hunter is crowding her back against the wall of the nook, hoisting her up by her hips as he adjusts his knees, positioning himself at her entrance. L'lo's heart nearly stops as he presses the tip of his erection against her core, white hot compared to the forest air, and she gasps, bucking down against him, moving on instinct alone as she struggles to impale herself on that thick cock.
Zenos holds her there for what feels like an eternity to her scrambled mind, L'lo scratching at his hands on her hips with her claws, drawing blood with each pass, which only makes the Garlean grip her harder. She can feel his fingers pressing bruises into her skin, relishes in the sensation, in such delightfully rough treatment where she is used to featherlight touches and tender kisses. The tip of his cock is still just kissing her entrance, and L'lo can tell she is coating it in her arousal just by squirming as she is, growling up at Zenos even as she sinks her claws into his forearms, willing him silently to get on with it . Finally, blessedly, Zenos begins to move, dragging her hips inexorably further into his lap, impaling her on his cock ilm by agonizing ilm. L'lo is wailing for it, clutching at anything and everything she can reach, before finally settling on clinging to Zenos' shoulders, her claws biting into his skin just shy of drawing blood. Her hunter's hair, just as slick with sweat as her own, forms a blond curtain around her contorting face, hiding her expression of pure bliss as he slides the rest of the way home, massive hands pressing her hips flush against his own, his cock reaching depths L'lo hadn't even realized she had.
She shivers, finally satisfied with where she is, her hunter's member filling the gaping hole she only became aware of when her heat had set upon her, digging her claws into Zenos' shoulders until she feels his blood well up to the surface and begin to drip down his back. The Garlean shudders and growls, removing his hands from her hips to scoop her up and hold her flush against his chest, muscled arms forming a burning cage of flesh that L'lo isn't certain she ever wants to leave. The new angle of her body has his cock shifting within her, rearranging her guts, she thinks with a delirious sort of joy, and the miqo'te howls her pleasure as she feels his tip dig into that perfect spot within her core, unerring and unrelenting. She can feel more than she can hear Zenos let out a breathy chuckle, and L'lo hangs on for dear life as he rolls his hips up into her, ripping a ragged sob of pleasure from her lips as he stabs brutally at her most sensitive spot.
Taking this as his cue to begin in earnest, Zenos adjusts his grip on L'lo so he is cradling her against his chest as he moves, and immediately sets a punishing pace, pounding into her from beneath her, his hips pistoning faster than she would have thought possible before this moment of pleasure so overwhelming, it borders on painful. The miqo'te sinks her teeth into the Garlean's muscled shoulder, not bothering to hold back, and soon she can taste the copper tang of Zenos' blood, just as she can feel her hunter growling at her rough treatment of him, his hips stuttering at the pleasure-pain. Her head feels foggy once again as she finally withdraws her teeth and licks her lips clean of most of the blood, and L'lo struggles to focus her eyes on the bite mark she has left, but the constant bobbing of her body and the way her neck muscles refuse to keep her head from nodding along out of time have her instead closing her eyes, mouthing prayers to the Twelve as she clings to her hunter, riding out his brutal thrusts with a dazed sort of bliss keeping her docile against his chest. Zenos bucks his hips powerfully once, twice, a pause, then a third time, and he is crushing her against his hips, groaning deep and low as he pumps his seed into her core. L'lo wails at the feeling of molten heat deep inside her core, the sensation she has been aching for for hours, her hands fluttering weakly against her hunter's chest as she too comes undone, her walls clenching around Zenos' softening member as she shudders in his arms.
"My beast..." Zenos growls into her ear, making L'lo shiver at the sensation of his breath against her delicate fur. "Have I satisfied your hunger for the moment...?" He asks, surprisingly tender as he reaches up to card his sinfully long fingers through her sweat-drenched hair. The miqo'te curls even closer into his skin, a rumbling purr starting low in her throat, before spreading throughout her chest as she comes down from her orgasm, Zenos' fingers brushing along her scalp doing wonders for her adrenaline-frayed nerves.
L'lo nods against the Garlean's breast, wriggling her hips where she still sits impaled upon his cock, just to feel him suck in a startled breath beneath her cheek. She smirks, turning to press open-mouthed kisses along Zenos' chest, her mind still pleasantly fuzzy from her orgasm, but quickly clearing of the bothersome heat haze that makes it so very difficult to think without being split open on a dick. The miqo'te should probably be offended, she thinks idly, trailing her fingertips down her hunter's hips and relishing in the way his muscle trembles beneath her touch. She should probably be plenty of things that she is not. Shocked. Scared. Trying to escape. Using her Linkshell to call for help. But, by the Twelve, if Zenos was going to kill her... would he not have done it by now? Before her mind had cleared? The heir to the Imperial throne of Garlemald may be many things, most of them very bad, but he has never shown himself to be dishonest. L'lo decides she is safe to take him at his word that he means her no harm.
“They intrigue me,” Zenos admits, his fingers slowing to a stop in her hair, as they both relax against the wall of the tree’s hollow, heart rates slowing as their carnal instincts die down for the time being, to little more than embers of their once-raging flames. “These… heats, you and your people suffer each year. I admit, it had not occurred to me that you suffered them until I learned of your abrupt departure from the front…”
L’lo snorts at that, closing her eyes as she rests her head over Zenos’ heart, finding its mortal rhythm soothing in her post-coital haze. Of course Zenos wouldn’t think of something so banal. And yet leave it to him to track her down and fuck her silly - all in the name of restoring her to her full strength, so that she can fight him again sooner. It’s almost sweet… in a twisted sort of way. But L’lo knows full well that she is in no fit state to be contemplating Zenos’ motives, not now, with her mind still foggy with lust, and her enemy’s cock hilted fully within her.
“Do I amuse you so, dear beast?” Zenos’ chest rumbles beneath her cheek, and L’lo smirks against his skin, knowing he will be able to feel it. His heartbeat stutters, and she stills where she lies, ready to fight her way free of Zenos’ hold in case he turns suddenly violent. “Tell me,” he demands, abruptly wrapping his hands about her shoulders and holding her back from his chest, studying her face with a scrutiny that startles her. “I would hear your words, not simply your cries of pleasure…” the Garlean frowns, shifting his legs beneath her so that she can lean back against them.
L’lo scowls up at him, shaking her shoulders free of his grasp, then bringing her hands up to sign that she cannot speak around those she does not trust implicitly. Zenos’ eyes flick down to her hands, and she rolls her eyes as the heir to the Imperial throne frowns, a dissatisfied crease forming even above his third eye. He opens his mouth to speak, but L’lo reaches up and lays a finger over his lips, shaking her head. She’ll make this nice and slow for him, just once. The miqo’te lays a hand over her throat, then shakes her head, opening her mouth and trying to force out a word to demonstrate how it refuses to come. Then she places his hand on her head, just below her ear, and leans into the touch, humming. Zenos blinks down at her, perplexed by her bizarre display no doubt, and L’lo sighs, shrugging her shoulders. At least now he looks more dumbfounded than angry. She’ll take what she can get.
“I… I do not understand. You make sounds, yet you do not speak? Clearly your tongue is intact-” he began, prying her mouth open with one hand before she could think to stop him. L’lo bit down hard on Zenos’ finger prodding her tongue, then hissed at him, sticking her tongue out for good measure. The Garlean was smirking even as he sucked his bleeding forefinger into his own mouth, laving his tongue around the fresh wound. “So…” Zenos begins again, withdrawing his finger from his mouth and resting his hand on L’lo’s bare thigh. “You do not… or cannot speak for a different reason than the mutilation or removal of your tongue. Often have I wondered why it is that you never respond to my words during battle… I suppose this would explain it.”
L’lo offers Zenos her trademark nod then, smirking down at Zenos’ still-bleeding finger atop her thigh. That had been satisfying. The heir to the Garlean empire follows her gaze down to his finger and chuckles, flexing it beneath her scrutiny. “‘Tis but a flesh wound. And one I deserved, no less.” The miqo’te chuckles softly at that, signing her agreement out of habit.
He watches her fingers dance through the air, clearly not comprehending a word she signs. Only when they pause, does Zenos turn his gaze back up to hers, and he inclines his head slowly. “You are no fool, this much is clear to me. I shall endeavor to learn these words you make with your hands, that our combat in the future may be enlivened by banter. I do not doubt you have plenty of horrible things to say to me,” he adds with a smirk, reaching up to smooth his thumb over her lower lip, before sliding it past her lips, rubbing it against her tongue for a moment, then withdrawing it and using his slick digit to wipe away a smear of his blood along her lip.
L’lo closes her eyes, leaning into the surprisingly gentle touch, and simply stays there for a moment, letting the serenity of the moment wash over her. “This does not change things between us, you understand, dear beast,” Zenos says, after clearing his throat to capture her attention. L’lo smirks and cracks open one eye to peer up at the Garlean, lifting her hands and sticking her forefinger through the loop created by her other forefinger and thumb in a sign that even Zenos cannot misinterpret, bucking her hips down against his, and causing him to gasp. She bites down on her lower lip to stifle a moan as she feels her partner’s length begin to stiffen anew within her.
Now is not the time for that conversation. Especially one-sided as it will be, what with her enemy not understanding her language and no one nearby to translate, on top of her primary concern, that being what she might agree to in this state of mind just to get Zenos to fuck her. No, this night will be for wringing her pleasure from him, and letting him disappear when he has had his fill. She suspects he will be watching her as long as he lives, no matter what else happens. When she wants to speak to him, L’lo is confident she’ll be able to summon him. Even if she has to kick his arse to get him to listen.