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Farkas smiled when the woman in his bed nuzzled into his chest, dominating his space. He'd only just met Hellhammer a few days ago, but he couldn't help the spark of excitement that ran through him when he thought of the days to come.
There had been immediate mutual attraction when Farkas had been tasked with testing her mettle when she sought to join the Companions, and they'd barely gotten through his bedroom door before they were stripping each other's armor and tasting every inch of each other's skin.
Hours later, they were both satisfied and spent, enjoying the warmth that came from being skin to skin.
“What happened here?” Her voice was soft, a thin layer of sleepiness underneath. Her fingers traced four parallel scars that cut through the dark hair covering his chest and belly.
“Sabrecat. Got me while I was camping.”
She winced. He was lucky to be alive; from the size of the scar, she was surprised it hadn't gutted him.
“What about this one?” He stroked a pair of raised scars on her cheek. She smiled.
“Hagraven. I didn't even see her until she was on top of me. And this one?”
The Orc touched a wide scar on the side of his neck.
“Bar fight. Broken bottle. Had to break the guy's arm before he calmed down.”
Her fingers lingered on his neck, an irrational feeling of possessiveness creeping in at the thought of anyone hurting him like that.
He brushed his thumb over her cheekbone, under an eye as white as moonstone. He caught her gaze, his own eyes seeking silent permission to ask.
“Poisoned Falmer blade. I still can't believe I didn't lose the eye entirely.”
He nodded, brow furrowed.
“Can it still see?”
“For the most part. I'm sensitive to lights now, though.”
He kissed the scar that tore from eyebrow to cheekbone, glad to know it hadn't blinded her.
She dragged her tongue over the two shallow pits below his collarbone.
“Arrows?”
He nodded. They'd been exquisitely painful to pull out, and the wounds they left behind had taken months to finish healing.
His fingers traced a raised scar on the back of her neck.
“Clan sigil?” He asked.
“For my first kill. I was 9.” He nodded.
“The tattoos, also clan markers?” He'd never seen ones like them, angry black slashes and lines spreading from her shoulders to mid-back.
“No. Those are… more personal.” She took his hand and held it in her own, eyes taking in a dozen small scars covering his fingers. She focused on one in particular, a long, deep one that crossed his palm.
“Who did this?” She looked up when Farkas laughed.
“That was Cheese.”
“The fuck kind of cheese are you buying?”
“Cheese is a cat. He jumped on the counter while I was chopping carrots and sent the knife flying. I panicked and tried to catch it.”
She hissed through her teeth, wincing at the thought.
Still holding his hand, she laced her fingers through his and sighed. He pulled her close, resting his cheek in her rough black hair.
“I really like you,” he murmured, nuzzling into her neck.
“You better,” she purred, “I like you too.”
He smiled, heat rising in his cheeks. The idea of letting her add to his collection of scars crept into his brain. It would be easy enough to let her wound him in the practice yard. The thought excited him more than he would ever admit.
It would be even better if she scarred him on purpose, when they were alone like this.
He shivered. Not that he'd ever be so lucky as to find someone with his proclivities. Still, wishing was free.
Tomorrow, he'd ask if she wanted to test her steel against his, and whatever happened would happen.
When his breathing was slow and even, she traced back over his scars in the dark.
“Nobody else better ever make you bleed again, unless it's me,” she whispered to him. This one was hers now. She couldn't wait to mark him in the practice yard next time they sparred. She'd have to be careful not to go too far; she just wanted to leave him with a permanent memento, not a serious injury. Swordplay should do the trick.
Grinning to herself in the dark, she finally let herself fall asleep. She was going to have so much fun training him.