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Silna wakes up at the first blush of dawn light and realizes that in the night, while they both slept, she had gathered Goodsir into her arms. They are on their sides, and her right arm is trapped under him, numb, and meets her other in a hug across his chest. Goodsir is still asleep, Silna's chest pressed to his back, her nose in his curly hair, and when she draws slightly away from him so as to blink muzzily at their surroundings he sighs and shifts in his sleep to follow.
Her heart squeezes at that, and she also squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, breathing in the scent of Goodsir's hair and clasping him close.
It's been a long time since she has held or been held by someone. Innocently, she longs for the touch of a living person as a nursing babe seeks skin contact; less innocently, the thought of contacting Goodsir's skin sends a pleasant thrill coursing through her, and she cannot help but take note of their intimate proximity, and of his smell inside of his collar, and how she wants more of both.
The shudder of her breath and the tensing of her arms wakes him as she is still mustering the muscle and hardheartedness to extricate herself.
His uppermost hand is on her hand, in one of the half-mittens made from the qiviut of an animal called a sheep. It twitches, his bare fingers then interlinking themselves with hers, and he mumbles something she can't quite catch, as he is coming out of his dreams slowly, and she would wager that the clarity of his speech remains there. He is soft and heavy in her arms and she buries her face into his hair, her eyes again closing as she breathes in his scent. Her nose presses against the nape of his neck, and her lips to the foreign woven make of his clothing, that too-cold fabric of the plant with cotton like kaŋiujaq; if she'd wanted she could take his collar between her teeth and taste the smoke which had so shaken him.
A deep inhale pushes his body snug against hers, and Goodsir presumably gains full consciousness of their cuddlesome position as he drifts back in on the exhale, for then, upon realization, he locks up in absolute panic. Silna grabs at him where they are holding hands, crushing their fingers tight for a moment to tell him that it is okay, and he relaxes, melting back into her bosom like a snowbank into the shelter of a hill's shadow neath summer sun.
“Silna,” he says, as when they were alone together they had become Harry and Silna to each other. Or that is what they had been before she'd given her tongue. Silna has only the root of her uqaq left, and thinks that she could say Harry, could form these sounds into proper enough shape for him to recognize this of his names, but she will not speak aloud ever again and so she resists doing so now, though she yearns to.
“Is this all right?” he asks, and she feels his head sink back into the bedding when she nods a yes against him and lets flow her voice for just a moment, in an unshaped single-syllable hum of assent. Even this simple thrum of her vocal chords is creaky with disuse.
“It is for me as well,” says Harry, accompanying this with another beat of pressure between their hands, a weight to it like a yes from qilaniq, though Silna knows that in this tent it is only the two of them, for there are no tuurŋait in this bed with them, and especially not the tuurŋaq in its bear-thing body which did not want to be hers.
After a contemplative pause, Harry adds, in a voice of his own still frayed and whispery: “I wanted to thank you. For coming to me, and, and for being here.”
For you, is what Silna might have otherwise said. She presses her lips to the skin of the back of his neck and wills the unsaid message into his spine; Goodsir gasps, and his fingers curl around hers, this the only other place where they two are touching skin against skin.
“Qujanaqqutit,” he says. He brings their hands to his lips, and she recognizes the kiss for what it is as he places it there against the base of her palm.
She cradles his cheek and runs her fingers through the depth of his facial hair, and he sighs. Hope leaps into Silna's throat: The possibility that her feelings might be requited.
Silna lets her hand wander to the strip of bare skin between the hair of his head and his beard to gauge the quickening of his carotid pulse, and she also does the same as he'd done, repeating the press of her own lips to his skin, albeit this time with sensual intent. Harry gasps, pressing back against her. She hums again, this time a question.
“Yes,” says Harry, stripping off his half-mittens and grabbing her hand to hold it in both of his hands over his heart, “yes, and please, Lady Silna, will... will you marry me? Ah... uinikpit?”
Since she is right next to his ear, he surely hears her breath hitch, and then detects her positive answer, and he gasps again when she resumes the actions of her mouth which had so affected him.
Harry's body writhes back against hers as she finds and playfully lips at the edge of his ear, as she nibbles at his earlobe and blows air into his ear to tickle him even though he retaliates with a little shake, of the innumerably ticklish curls of his own sleep-messy hair and of laughter.
His responsiveness, his receptiveness, the difficulty with which he keeps himself silent at the slightest brush of her lips, has her captivated. She pulls her arm from beneath him and props herself on her elbow to raise herself for a better view, and to check, through exchange of expression, that he is not in truth overwhelmed. He's flushed pink, breathing heavily, and smiles to her, then bites his lip with a little nod.
Goodsir covers his mouth for himself when Silna finds and grabs his erection, above his trousers but beneath the sheep's-felt blanket, and it is good that Goodsir is therefore ready to stifle the harsh exhalations he makes as she gropes out the shape of him. She stoops to lip some more at his earlobe, enough to elicit another high-pitched noise, and he turns his head to escape the mischief she lavishes upon his ear, turning his head toward her, opening himself to a kiss.
Silna nuzzles her nose and mouth against his as she breathes inward, and Goodsir does the same, the corners of his soft eyes creasing as his and Silna's breathing begins to blend, and the creases wetting a bit with tears of either emotion or pleasurable sensation. After a few futile blinks Goodsir lets rest his eyes, some more moisture seeping from beneath his eyelashes.
“Nagligiřagit,” Goodsir says to Silna, their faces having never parted.
She sighs appreciatively through her nose, and then also as their lips slot together, and, at the delicate prodding of his tongue, she lets him slip through the seam of her mouth.
At first, the sensation of his tongue, politely insinuated, is slimy alone, but as Harry rhythmically sweeps and undulates it between her lips, withdrawing every now and then to suckle at Silna's bottom lip and nibble at it rather as she had at his ear, the movements start to set an enticing, tingly heat into her tissues. The air is especially cold against her lips whenever he takes his away to murmur his love and gratitude, and she must then chase his mouth to quiet him.
The more they kiss with their mouths, the more their mouths wet each other's and on occasion glance aside, wandering ever more boldly, and Silna begins to feel the burn from Harry's facial hair on her sensitized lips, the stubble prickly as she mouths another sloppy kiss onto him so as to hear how he moans for her. He curls his tongue against her teeth, dipping in with shy little thrusts as if in desperation to taste of her every humblest crevice, to feed of her breath, and she rears away in silent laughter, and bends to breathe against his hairy, sweaty throat.
He is so prompt to give her whatever it is which is in his power to grant, and so he bares his throat to give her more room, and though his entire body jerks when she lightly bites him he keeps his chin up. Even the most teasing of touches has Harry arching in her grasp, and he lets out a huffing laugh of his own, also trying and somewhat failing for quiet. The sounds of the foreigners' camp, the snoring men and distant voices speaking qablunaatut, nevertheless continue onward outside of Goodsir's tent without disturbance.
An inspirational question regarding his manner of kissing strikes her, and Silna wonders whether he might kiss her where she is hottest and wettest and most wanting.
As if in tune with this wish Harry wriggles downward, and while this neglects her of the hold she'd had at the fork of his legs she pulls the blanket over them both and easily rallies by hiking her atigi up to her armpits to bare her breasts to him.
Goodsir hesitates in unabashed awe, and casts another look to Silna for her nod of approval, after which, with Silna's hand at the back of his neck, he kisses each of her nipples with the warm, clever suction of his mouth, and whimpers in the back of his throat when she takes up a handful of his hair to keep him there and to press him closer. One of his soft hands cups her breast as he sucks her, the other feeling out the curve at the side of her waist, and she feels his touch trembling.
Silna goes to her shoulder and then her back, rolling to recline underneath him. The blanket covers them, and now that Silna is flat the bulk of her atigi hides Goodsir from her sight completely, for the tuktu hide is bunched high beneath her chin. She feels him plenty fine, though, her hand clenched in his hair as she directs his head from breast to breast, switching his attentions between her aroused areolae as it suits her and delighting in his obedience, and in the roll of his tongue against her stiff flesh, and how this stiffens the concentrated point of arousal which is her clit; Silna grinds upward against Goodsir's thigh and revels in his hardness on her own thigh and in the wetness she can feel from herself.
She decides to touch his member again.
Pulling him back up into another kiss, she sneaks her hand into his trousers and takes him into her fist without anymore cloth to keep him from her, and she squeezes her fingers tight around his rigid girth. His voice is in his sigh as he lets her swallow his many would-be whimpers and whatever he might have said into one long moan, for she thinks, fondly, that Goodsir would not have ceased to whisper endearments to her once he had begun, otherwise.
When they break apart he does indeed do so.
Every now and then, whenever he can, he whispers I love you in English, speaking these words in soft exhalations into her skin. They linger like this a long while, and he says it against her breasts and sternum, against clavicle and throat and cheek, and he sighs it a last time with her lips claiming the shape of it from his.
With his mouth and tongue now busy against her mouth, Silna busies her own hand around his cock, slowly stroking until she has learned the length of his shaft, and then she reverses her grip and rolls her thumb over the head, where she finds him likewise actively leaking an ample amount of lubrication. She fancies, with a shudder of lust, that he is almost as wet as she is.
Goodsir's pleading breathing, his voice in it, is increasingly sweet and ragged. The twitch of his hips nudges his hard prick in a slick and needy little glide through Silna's fist. His skin is soft and swollen over the circumference of his aroused member, his foreskin rolling down to expose himself more so that he is even more naked in her hand, and though he is plenty prepared for a more rigorous pace, Silna keeps her movements almost punishingly slow and tight. The whole weight of him is trustingly pliant, except for the twitching of the cock in her hand which pulses with a life of its own, and when she separates their mouths his eyelids flutter before they open, and even so his gaze is dazed, his pupils large. Their kissing has already reddened his lips and disheveled his spiral locks and she's charmed beyond belief.
Could she speak, she'd tell Goodsir that she loves him, too. With her face and breath Silna gives Harry another of her own kisses to show him this.
She takes her hand from his trousers and taps his mouth, then points back down. Goodsir's dreamy gaze sharpens as much as it can as she repeats the gesture, this time also tapping her own mouth and then English-kissing him for emphasis, the two fingers which she uses damp with his musky emissions. With an eager nod at Silna's meaning, Goodsir shuffles himself backward to situate himself between her legs, and she loosens her drawstring belt and guides him in pulling down her trousers.
As with her breasts, Goodsir seems inclined toward worshipful staring, but is fast convinced to apply his mouth to her places where its urgent service is most desired, combing away her pubic hair with his careful hands before lapping his tongue up her inner labia.
She jumps at the first pass of his tongue over her clit, but then it is just soft wet heat, the point of his tongue cleverly applying itself in round strokes beneath her clitoral hood, and he melts at every tug of his curly hair. So she rakes her fingers through Goodsir's curls, and, rocking her hips, Silna makes gentle use of him, until her own viscous slick covers him, and his bushy sidewhiskers will be chafing pinkness into the insides of her thighs. She crosses her ankles over his back, the trousers a cumbersome twist around her lower legs and her thighs flexing around his head, and she finds the leverage to grind her clit against his nose while his tongue thrusts and curls inside of her.
The tiny, muffled noises which drift from beneath the blanket are ones she'd very much like to hear again; right now she closes her eyes to the morning sunlight so that it bathes the insides of her eyelids and imagines experiencing this, not again, but forever, suspending them in this act, so that Goodsir is always famished for her pleasure, and Silna has indefinite ownership over his mouth in all its loveliness. She grips his hair in both hands and tenses her legs as she rubs herself with even greater vigor against his face, regardless of the stripe of stubble down it, and she comes, her back arching as the shuddering heat surges through the cradle of her pelvis, ecstatic sensation fluttering throughout her very core, and she mashes his face to her pulsing cunt while he licks the last shocks of it out of her.
After, she drags Harry's face back to hers and kisses him again, her eyes smiling into his. He reciprocates with her fluids gleaming over his blushing cheeks, Silna's taste a shared thing between them though for her it is only a shadow near the back of her throat.
Silna becomes impatient for the feel of him in her and reaches between them for his clothes. It'd be better were they to get naked, perhaps, but she can tell that he hasn't the patience, either; she'll rinse and scrape any pale stains off his dark cloth clothing so that he is not embarrassed before his companions, for he's hers and she wants him now. He hastily assists her in parting his trousers, and Silna guides Goodsir to herself, to the entrance of herself which still pulses.
With a deep gasp and an expression which transforms into one of astonishment, he sinks inside, the thickest thing she has ever taken, the unfamiliar breach of it gradual but uncompromising in its stiffness and bluntness. Silna, her arms around him, kicks off her boots and trousers and her stockings and she draws him all the way in with her naked legs when he slows almost to a stop, too cautious of causing her hurt, and he gasps even more loudly and hides his dear, damp, whiskery face against her neck.
They both gulp for air. She is sopping from her recent climax and her cunt almost gushes around his cock as Harry gives in and moves his hips against her, the rest of him falling slack again, his shape yearning with all gravity to surrender to Silna's.
“Please, is it all right?” he moans into her ear, half mindless and begging. “Is this all right?”
In answer she nods and grasps his buttocks in encouragement. He jerks his lower abdomen forward and whimpers, and though she's pinned him with her legs and her hands, his hips still try to roll; it pleases Silna to think it all because of herself that he has been turned to this helpless marvel so without restraint, and his cock twitches when she clenches around the seeming immensity of him. The fabric of Goodsir's trousers is coarse on her most intimate and excitable of skin, his body pressed flat to hers and with just his hips moving so that the impact of his thrusts bounces roughly upon her clit, building a fresh tide of carnal want.
Goodsir's pace quite quickly quickens, stutters, and then, as his every muscle becomes tense and his cock drives itself as deeply into Silna as it is able, he spills. The warmth blooms inside of her, his pubic bone grinding on her clitoris, his length within fat and hot, and she kneads at his arse cheeks with her fingernails and presses her smile to his sweaty temple as he quivers atop her, crossing her legs even more tightly around him to hold him deep inside of herself.
“Why, I. I'm so sorry, I wasn't thinking,” he apologizes, even as his hips absently eke out the last of release's pleasure within her while he catches his breath. Each minor push incites a delectable spark in her own body, her clitoris swollen enough for the sensitive glans to peek from beneath the hood and face the scrape of cloth.
He finally meets her eyes and sees her smiling, and relaxes, his forehead pressing to hers, and she holds him safe inside of herself until his member softens.
Goodsir lifts his weight up with a sigh and a kiss as his prick slips from her. His curious hand, perhaps also palpating her in search of any undue soreness caused by their coupling, reaches between her legs, the pad of his thumb finding her clit and pushing back the hood so that he stimulates this rawest of erogenous nerves with a dry and naked pressure.
Silna hisses and Goodsir apologizes a second time. Immediately he attempts to retract his touch, but she grabs his wrist to prevent him.
Apparently, Harry still is not thinking, for at this signal and with his thumb starting to stroke Silna's own slickness over the rounded head of her clit, he kisses her nipple, then her navel, and she realizes he is going back down. Both of her hands fly to Goodsir's head in encouragement and his tongue plunges right back into the hole in which his cock had just found completion.
It is now Silna who cannot help but emit a pleasured moan. Harry draws back up, tongue dragging drool and seed and Silna's fluids alike to the top of her vulva, teasing her clit as he leisurely laps this creamy admixture from her with long, firm swipes, his worshipful ministrations adapting to complement the rocking of Silna's hips.
He pulls his tongue from her to swallow, pauses, and looks up at her, blinking as though surprised at himself despite a very small smile of self-satisfaction on his face, his nervous disposition and tendency toward worrying for another's comfort at conflict with actual pleasurable reality until he has again seen Silna's face, and Silna lightly pushes his head to get him to put his mouth back, tapping his back with her heel and crooning her praise as he sets to work.
Goodsir's smile fades in favor of enthusiastically servicing her with a furrow of concentration between his dark, ever-expressive eyebrows, his eyes shutting in bliss and his nose buried in her hair.
Silna runs her fingers through his curls as he likes, and then she sits up and has them flip their position so that she may straddle Harry's head, and he goes easy, beyond eager to please, even though this breaks him away from her for a moment, long enough she again hears him speak his love to her flesh. The semen dribbles thickly out of her on its own now, and her sweet, gentle Harry brings everything into his mouth with the diligent adoration of his hot wet tongue, breath gasping even hotter whenever he goes for air for he's holding it like a sea mammal on a dive just so as to stay to her longer; he sucks another orgasm from her throbbing clit, Silna's hands stroking and then seizing his hair as she rides it out.
After this, Goodsir kisses her quaking, friction-burned thighs, until she has slid her body down to lie heavy on his and has tasted him again, and Goodsir drifts into another doze as Silna rests there on him chest against chest. Though it is full sunlight now, Silna takes a moment to let him sleep. She pulls in the fluffy sheepskin on which the bedding is laid and folds it around them both to keep herself and her husband, her ui, from chill.
If Silna must leave, she knows, now, that Goodsir will leave with her. She will keep him and with her he will live.