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She loves the way he treats her like a princess.
She loves power, has always loved power, has always craved it, but the power he gives her when he slowly pulls off her clothes, kissing every inch of skin as it’s bared, is a different kind of power. It’s not the power fueled by fire, all-consuming and hot and angry, but the power fuel by a strong wind. Just as strong, but more a pull, constant and strong, like he is being pushed towards her. Like she is his center, always calling him back. It is as if she is his star, his sun, and he is circulating her constantly, kept close by her pull, her power.
Her light.
She prides herself on being strong, the strongest, the best, the one who never needs help from anyone. But when he runs his fingers through her hair, makes her shoulders and back pliable under his hands. When he worships her, he is reminding her that it’s okay to be vulnerable.
It’s okay to trust.
His arms are strong from wielding hammers, and she knows that he is powerful to. That he can smash and shatter and destroy enemies. The he can also catch her and hold her up. But what she loves is how gentle they are when they caress her, when they touch her, soft and gentle as the breeze, dancing down her sides and up her thighs. Stroking her stomach and tickling down the curve of her behind. His lips then follow, laying tender kisses down her body, on her calves, her ankles, then up again, along her legs and back to her stomach, enveloping her in sparks of pleasure and sighs of contentment. He kisses on and between her breasts, up to her collarbone, her jaw, her cheek and a deep, passionate kiss to her lips.
He cherishes and worships her, treating her gently as if she were fragile, but bowing to the power she has over him. Whispering how beautiful she is, gentle touches and brushing her hair, seeing the side of her that no one else does. The side of the independent, strong pirate who sometimes wants to be a princess, pampered and loved by her windy prince.
//
She loves the way he tastes.
She presses her nose to his skin, breathing in his scent and flicking out her tongue to dance it along his collarbone, tasting sweat and the sweet hint of the red pushing underneath.
Red, red, red. He’s all red.
She moves her nose upwards to bump against his cheek, breathing in the deep cherry scent and feeling his breath ghost against her face. He dips his head down to bury it in the crook of her neck, his lips against her skin. They’re soft, like all of him. Like the skin under hands, under her claws. Softer than she is, more fragile, lines welling up where she presses a little, the sweet red scent wafting stronger into the air.
Fragile, so fragile.
Her precious coolkid. All wrapped up in his cocoon of words where he thinks no one get to him. But her claws are sharp and her teeth are like daggers. She can pull back the layers, go deep, scrape away, find the red of his pain and his anger and his sadness and hurt pulsing underneath. She pokes and prods and aggravates until he is a cherryred explosion of emotion, mask shattering cracking falling to the floor. Leaving him bare, the way she wants him, so she can kiss him and know he feels it. Feels her.
She presses closer, pushing her chest upwards against his and feeling the muted sound he makes reverberate through the both of them. His eyelashes flutter against her skin and his mouth opens on her neck, hot and wet against her. Her own mouth opens with a gasp and her claws press down harder. She feels wetness, licking at the tips of her fingers where she’s broken the skin on his back, the smell sharp and sweet to her senses.
His lips descend on her parted ones, and her tongue flicks upwards between them hungrily. He tastes hot and fiery and still so sweet. Sad and tired and passionate and like fire, like a slow, subtle heat emulating the lazy roll of lava down a mountainside.
Their lips move together, open and searching, and she tastes cherry again as her teeth dig into the tender flesh of his mouth. She swipes her tongue over the wound hungrily, her mouth twisting into a smile as she grabs his bottom lip between hers and sucks.
Red red red.
All red, everywhere. Her red knight, bright and hurting and closed to everyone but her. Her, the seer who, despite all of his protective layers, can taste the sweet cherry red of his heart.
//
She loves the way she talks.
Or rather, the way she never stops talking.
As her lips trail up the curve of her neck, they move and flutter with the words that flow from her mouth. A ceaseless hum, a vibration traveling from one woman to the next. Her painted black lips send the tremor of her words dancing across gray skin, and her partner smiles, her own lips moving with unstoppable verbose as her hands rest on the other’s hips.
As they touch and caress and feel each other their word flow never ceases. They can’t stop, neither of them, and she tangles her hand in her partner’s pale hair, pulling her head upwards so that violet meets jade. Together, their mouths upturn into a smile and a neat and orderly flow of words escapes both of them. Even when their lips meet, words pass between them. As they pull back to draw breath, they talk. As they smash together again they murmur into each other. Feel the hum of the other’s words against their lips.
She knows that her human partner feels a need to be heard. That she feels that she lived a life where what she said was never taken seriously. That her words were dismissed or misunderstood. And so the troll arches under the constant hum of words. Let’s them dance along her skin. Up and down her neck, across her collarbone. Down between her breasts, her chest, to her bellybutton and to the area beyond.
And truthfully, she loves the sound of her love’s voice as much as she loves the feel of her words. Low, forceful, teasing and firm. Full of conviction in her ideas and the undertone of a need to be heard. A need to have someone listen. Her voice is not delicate. Nothing about her is delicate. She appears so, with her fair paper-thin skin and name shared with an earth flower, but she is not. She is strong. She is powerful. Her words echo in the troll’s ears and the vibrations from the sounds she makes reverberate through them both.
She responds to the words, but mostly she listens. Listens to the seer whose words light a flame in her heart like no other.
//
He loves how angry she is.
He loves the way her teeth clench and her lips bare into a snarl. The way her hand fists in his hair and yanks. The way her blunt human nails manage to leave marks and lines on his back. The way her soft human hand clenched into a fist leaves bruises all along his flesh. The way she growls into his neck, and bites and scratches and kicks out and marks him all over before she’s satisfied.
Anger is something he is familiar with. He is all anger. All burning hot, rage-red, furious and hating. He hates and he hates and he is angry at everyone but the hate is only ever for himself. He wants to be kicked. He wants to be punched. And she obliges him.
For her, he knows, anger is something unfamiliar. Unknown, unexplored. Sweet, cheery, giggly, all bucktoothed grins and sparkly green eyes. Anger is rare. Hate is nonexistent.
But he knows that she has cracks. She has limits. And she is wild like the animals on her island. Like the dog that raised her. Her anger is like a barely contained wildfire under her skin. Hidden behind the smiles. Behind the façade of knowing everything. Of everything being alright. And when the façade crumbles, the fire spills out. Out of her mouth in growls, in the way her hands press down roughly, nails tearing, teeth biting, eyes flashing.
Hot angry kisses leave his mouth bruised, leave him aching from her attack, and it feels so good to him. So good to have someone hit him and direct their anger at him because he deserves it and this is what he needs. He needs her wildfire rage to scorch away the guilt in his heart. And she needs his durable body to burn away all the anger she carries in hers.
And then she sobs, and slumps, and her hands are no longer clawing but caressing and her fingers run softly through his hair and her lips are pressed gently against the marks on his skin. Kind, sweet.
And all of his emotions come rushing out as well. He acknowledges her other self, her laughing self, her sweet as sugar self, and he feels the bubbling within his chest and the churning in his stomach at the way her touches have become soft. A bubbling he identifies as pity but she always claims is love.
And now the wildfire is quenched, and the ashes need tenderness. And now, he can show her. He can brush her hair back from her forehead, press kisses to her fevered flesh, and show the kindness and caring he usually fights tooth and nail to keep hidden.
Their lips meet and they melt into one another.
A perfect match.