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Small Sanctuaries

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It's cold outside, the snow falling with silent persistence, but it's warm beneath the covers, warmer in the shifting space between their bodies where they taste and gasp and touch. There's no haste here, not this time, not with the adrenaline of action burned away in the frenzy of their first frantic coupling, the memory of blood spilt and vengeance delivered on those who most deserved it. The edge has been dulled, but in its place is something more satisfying, more real, made of trust and care and something deeper that neither cares to put a name to but recognises nonetheless.

This isn't about words, spoken or otherwise.

Raven is a constant revelation as he maps her skin with hands and lips and tongue – here, where she's curved and smooth like an apple; here, where she's soft and fragile like a peach; here, where her scales lie flat like fine-edged feathers; here, where they stand proud and hard as rose thorns; here, where she's slick and wet and wanting. He laps at her juices and feels her ripple against him, shifting and settling as she cards her fingers through his hair and presses him to her. She arches and cries out as he slips a finger inside her and plants lingering kisses on her clit, stroking just so and so and so, teasing her pleasure from her as she moans and flutters. He could play her like this for hours, marveling in her strength and her scent, in the warrior wrought from the sheltered girl she had once been, but he doesn't resist as she pulls his face from her flesh and twists, agile as a cat, to capture his mouth with her own.

It's his turn to moan as she drags her nails down his sides, followed a moment later with the soft pads of her fingers as they trace the lines of old scars, the reminders of other times, other battles. Her kiss is eager, possessive, and he gasps into her mouth as he finds himself on his back with her sex pressed wetly against his belly, her thumbs stroking rough fire over his nipples. He sets his hands at her waist and feels her laugh as she lifts her head and raises her hips, impaling herself on him in a single, smooth movement that makes them both cry out. She's still slick and slightly loose from the last time he took her, and that thought... god, the need to bury himself deep, to fill her with his seed, to bind him to her and her to him and....

And she, it seems, is in full accord, letting out a shuddering breath as she begins to move, begins to ride him in the heated, musky darkness beneath the blankets. She rests her hands on his shoulders as she finds her rhythm and then, then they are rocking together, thrusting and groaning and sweating as they chase the end. He can't see her, but he can feel her skin shifting beneath his palms, her entire self reflecting her pleasure, and he's so glad she chose him, so glad that she accepted herself and what she was meant to be, what she... she –

She breaks first, coming with a cry as she locks around him and collapses onto his chest, panting hard as he rolls her over and covers her, his hips jerking as he drives into her until he can hold back no longer. The wave crashes over him and he welcomes it, sobbing and keening against her neck as he fills her, loses himself within her.

And then they are lying breathless in each other's arms, sticky and sated and warm in their own small and – sadly – temporary refuge. Outside, the snow is still falling, as cold and as cruel as the rest of the world it is a part of but here, for this little while, they are safe from that world.

And that cruel world is, for this little while, safe in its turn from them.