Blackness suits you. Do you feel the same fire that she does as your lips caress her or do they move out of some sense of testosterone-driven longing. Your mind dares not broach the subject, instead letting your lips trace what line they choose while you ignore the questions of your own that plague you. Little do you know what secrets stir in the pale woman's mind, what histories she dares to remember, what painful thoughts she trudges through. Are you as frightened to ask yourself the question that lurks just over the horizon of your brain as she is to ask you the questions she has? More so. You dare not ask for fear that the answer will mean losing more of yourself to this woman than you can dare to.

Her tears, her lips on your shoulders. For any other, they would mean a beating of the worst kind... For Snowflake you endure, even welcome, the touch. But she pulls away, releasing you from her hold, for a moment that seems too long. The question lurks closer to the edge of the cliff, daring to spill over into your consciousness. You stave it off, but only by the narrowest margins, as her muzzle reaches back to find your own. Her touch is soft velvet, but it could break sailors heart. You blow softly, a locoweed breath daring to mingle with her own, more worthy air. What does she want?

The answer comes a moment later and you retract your nose, only a hair's distance, ears flicking towards her, just to listen. You still linger close, so close. Are you touching her or is that electricity between you, in the air. Is it so hard to tell? But there is pain in her words. Pain you have caused? Perhaps. You cannot promise to be a perfect friend, a perfect... lover? Is that what you dare call yourself? Has that question finally tipped over the edge? Have you finally given voice and answer to the feeling that lingers? Whatever you are, you will never be a knight in shining armor. A knight, perhaps, but your armor is dented, rusted, dingy. You are not special... you are only you.

“She's dead to me,” you respond when she's done, little tenderness in your voice, but the gruffness is not because of Elsa. The thought of Kellian, for surely that is who she speaks of... You killed Kellian when you mauled Elsa in the snow, when you screamed of her in the darkness, when you drowned her memory in locoweed. She exists in your past, but only as a mistake. Whatever her motives, whatever kept her from you... If she cared, she would have come to you. Or, at the very least, would have had the decency not to stand beside that beast of a man as you were forced away from her.

But you don't want to think of her now, not here. This is a moment for you, for Snowflake. “What killed you?” You ask, and you find that your response and your desire to know her is genuine. When you shift, your nose pressing forward against her again though, you find that your desires return. And while you wait long enough for her to give you a response, you are on the move again, lips tracing a new path across her body. Your dirty, green teeth follow the gentle curve of her spine. The motion is slow, but with a purpose, your body following as you come closer and closer to her tail dock, all of this assuming she has not moved from you- gleaned your intentions, perhaps, and does not desire them.

You spin about, giving her time to finish her story if she has chosen to tell you, and when she is done, if she has not found it prudent to kick you, you attempt to mount her. You will not be a gentle lover, it is not in your nature, but you know she is strong enough to hold you, to tame you even, if she wants to. And as your mind goes to blank, your teeth reach forward for her withers and her mane, to hold her in the blackness where the two of you are safe to be yourselves.

@[Elsa] Uh... Oxy does what he wants? Sorry, lol. But, if she doesn't kick the shit out of him, he is temporarily sterile from the drugs, so no need to worry about babeh makin'.

Oxy