Twelve have mercy, but Urianger knows he shouldn't be feeling a lick of hunger curling its way up the length of his spine at Thancred's anger β or perhaps not at his anger, per se, but at the sudden closeness of his proximity and the passion in his tone. Yes, it's a passion that's rooted in frustration at his behaviour, but it's also a passion that's rooted in a desire to protect their unborn child from harm. In this moment, Urianger suspects that nothing could be more arousing.
"Thancred," he tries again, aiming for the soothing tone he usually employs when trying to reassure. It doesn't help that the colour in his cheeks only deepens at the man's assumption of the reason for it: how can he tell him outright that he's flushed for the simple reason of his presence? He shakes his head minutely, his other hand moving up so that a palm rests against each of Thancred's shoulders, their proximity enough to have another pleased little prickle run down the curve of his lower back.
"'Tis not the stairs that steal my breath away, dear one, nor is it the child."
An inference, perhaps, if not a direct confession. Urianger's lashes dip a little further as the heat in his core sinks a little lower, and he shifts just enough so as to very lightly squeeze his thighs together beneath the skirts of his robe. Instinctively, one hand moves from Thancred's shoulder to the lower curve of his belly again; a distracted reminder of what acting on those hot, pleasurable feelings have done to him.
What Thancred has done to him.
Another pulse, and this time Urianger takes half a step towards Thancred as the remaining hand slides down to the crook of his elbow.
"Come. If 'tis thy wish to chastise me, prithee do so within the privacy of mine own chambers. I would not wish for an audience to bear witness to thine ire."
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Twelve have mercy, but Urianger knows he shouldn't be feeling a lick of hunger curling its way up the length of his spine at Thancred's anger β or perhaps not at his anger, per se, but at the sudden closeness of his proximity and the passion in his tone. Yes, it's a passion that's rooted in frustration at his behaviour, but it's also a passion that's rooted in a desire to protect their unborn child from harm. In this moment, Urianger suspects that nothing could be more arousing.
"Thancred," he tries again, aiming for the soothing tone he usually employs when trying to reassure. It doesn't help that the colour in his cheeks only deepens at the man's assumption of the reason for it: how can he tell him outright that he's flushed for the simple reason of his presence? He shakes his head minutely, his other hand moving up so that a palm rests against each of Thancred's shoulders, their proximity enough to have another pleased little prickle run down the curve of his lower back.
"'Tis not the stairs that steal my breath away, dear one, nor is it the child."
An inference, perhaps, if not a direct confession. Urianger's lashes dip a little further as the heat in his core sinks a little lower, and he shifts just enough so as to very lightly squeeze his thighs together beneath the skirts of his robe. Instinctively, one hand moves from Thancred's shoulder to the lower curve of his belly again; a distracted reminder of what acting on those hot, pleasurable feelings have done to him.
What Thancred has done to him.
Another pulse, and this time Urianger takes half a step towards Thancred as the remaining hand slides down to the crook of his elbow.
"Come. If 'tis thy wish to chastise me, prithee do so within the privacy of mine own chambers. I would not wish for an audience to bear witness to thine ire."