The fire crackles softly, sending gentle sparks into the cool night air. Leaves rustle as the night breeze weaves through the trees, brushing against your cheeks. You close your eyes, yielding to the feeling, and a sweet yawn escapes your lips, exhorting the day's end.

A quiet, honeyed sigh escapes your lips as you tremble from the touch of a man’s fingers, which bury themselves in your long hair, combing it with a tenderness that sends shivers down your spine. “Is my little lambkin tired?” Varré's voice, muffled by the white mask, resonates with melodic sweetness; his words are a soft caress, each syllable dripping with affection.

Your lip is clenched between your teeth.

With a smooth motion, Varré lifts the edge of his mask, just enough to reveal his lips. He leans closer, his breath warm against your ear. “My lambkin deserves all the comfort,” he whispers, his lips brushing upon your skin.

He tilts his head to the side, staring intently at the back of your head. You… not a single word expresses you, because even your sugary scent makes him whine in agony. His bitchiness is almost amusing; he tries so hard to appear disinterested, but the truth is he gladly locks you away under a thousand locks to keep you all to himself.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he mutters, the words slipping past his lips before he can stop them. His voice, though softened by the mask, carries a longing. He pulls you closer, his fingers now trailing down the curve of your neck, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

Varré fights to maintain his composure, to not reveal how much power you hold over him, but it is a losing battle. Your quiet sighs and leaning into his touch only fuel his desperation.

He longs to plant a seed so deep, watching it sprout its first shoots, seeing you become so unbearably vulnerable, kept only in his embrace. Oh, he is so besotted. His mind races with the vision of nurturing that seed, of seeing you grow more dependent on him, needing his presence just as much as he yearns for yours.