It's hard to ignore or acknowledge how much Fearne enjoys the way Imogen's body presses against her, the smell of dry grass and sweat and lavender, how it densely concentrates at the crown of her head, her hair full and thick curves and curls in lilac, lavender again - all flowers, monks hood, foxglove, deadly nightshade - how she can picture Imogen lying in a field of them, a field lush full of flowers and a healthy flush to her cheeks, supported by the stems, the grass, the green, the green of Fearne's own hair-
They would obviously look good together - nature says so; even more so under the light of a silver moon, dark sky, Laudna looming over, branches encircling, an a-thousand year old yew out-growing any shrub at Nana Morri’s-
Imogen's fingertips brush through the thick coarse short hairs of Fearne's forearm, the same that cover the upper half of her body.
“You feel kinda familair.”
“Are you comparing me to a horse?” Fearne asks, and Imogen pauses and turns over her shoulder, greeting Fearne with the profile of her face.
“Is that insensitive?” Fearne can only see half of Imogen’s mouth, so cannot translate the shape of it, aware that it quirks, unsure whether in apology or quip.
“Not with how much you like horses.” and her face is still turned, still in profile, so Fearne sees how deeply one of Imogen's cheeks flushes.
She turns away from Fearne again, pluming the faun’s nostrils with the flower fields in a dry summer again as she continues to stroke at her forearm.
“That's good-” her mouth suddenly dries, despite the welcome confirmation that she can be of some comfort at this time - maybe because of it, maybe because of the ways Fearne is familiar with finding comfort in others.
she's met all kinds before and since leaving the feywild, she never thought what would bewilder her most would be a human. Maybe it makes total sense,
so soft, delicate fragile flesh that of course needed her healing, broke her usual rapport with such magics
so powerful, calling lightning to her fingertips, the very electricity that could with one spark cleave a whole ancient oak tree
level a city with her grief
the thought causes Fearne to shudder.
“Fearne…” Imogen starts, and yeah, she should remember by now - mind reader. She probably doesn't want to be reminded of that, but-
“Whatever you need from me.” and she really means it, and Imogen's hand over the back of Fearne's is so timid, so timid but somehow sure, probably certain because of Fearne’s thoughts, taking it and guiding them both to the front of Imogen's shorts.
“I wanna forget - just for a while.”
“Yeah - yes - of course-”
https://archiveofourown.org/works/75304361