Rain fell the way it often did in cursed lands—sudden, merciless, and loud enough to drown thoughts.

Aelorian was not made for this. Not mud, nor wild terrain. And absolutely not for the blasphemy of wet feet. Drenched, sulking, and shivering in wet silk, he trudged forward with all the brittle dignity befitting a dethroned prince exiled to the world’s ugliest bog. His long black hair, once artfully arranged into braids, stuck to his cheeks. His boots let out miserable little squelches with every step, and his useless brocade cape dragged behind him like a heavy banner of suffering. 

Thorne trudged ahead of him in silence, seemingly unbothered. Rain flowed down his back and shoulders, trailing over old scars and knotted muscle. He looked carved from something ancient and rugged, a statue dragged from a forgotten war. Each step was deliberate and heavy, as if the earth were making room for him. And although his face remained impassive, his jaw clenched, and his brow bounced slightly each time Aelorian let out another indignant, tinkling, elf sound—each one more dramatic than the last.

“Does he even notice the mud?” Aelorian wondered bitterly, one ruined boot sinking into the earth with a squelch. “Or does swampwater just roll off him like water over oil?”  Aelorian watched as Thorne's skin beaded with rain, the filth sluicing off in elegant sheets like the world itself was too afraid to stick to him. Impervious. Impenetrable. A suit of flesh-forged armor, hulking and silent, while Aelorian's finery slipped and sagged with every step, wet silk clinging to him humiliatingly.

He sniffed and pressed a hand to his chest, clutching his invisible pearls in silent despair. The insidious filth had made it under his clothes somehow..

And still his eyes stayed on Thorne's shoulders. To the roll of muscle beneath skin that looked carved from river-worn stone. Would it be rough to the touch? Or—Aelorian's brow furrowed—soft? Not delicate, never that, but... yielding. Sun-warmed. Calloused in the right places. The kind of flesh that remembered battle but still gave under your hand. The kind you could press into and leave a mark.

The Elf scowled, heat pricking at the tips of his ears. I am not thinking about caressing an ogre.

But he was.

And it wasn't even the worst thought he'd had that hour.

"Is this mud or shit?" Aelorian snapped suddenly, lifting a leg with exaggerated effort and an audible shhlrrrk. "Do you know what kind of fungal nightmare is happening to my boots?!"

"No," the ogre said flatly, "but I look forward to hearing about it for the next three leagues."

"I'm serious!" Aelorian whined, clutching dramatically at his chest. "These were Elven calfskin! Cured in moonwater and blessed by a priestess! They sing if you stroke them in the right place!"

"Bet they scream now," Thorne murmured under his breath.

Aelorian’s head snapped up, eyes flashing, soaked strands of hair sticking to his forehead and cheeks like nature's slap in the face. "I don't need your sarcasm, ogre. I need a dry path. And a hot bath. And—ah, fuck—fuck!"

It happened with the precision of a divine prank.

His foot hit a patch of hidden slime, and with a dramatic blorp, he landed in a glorified puddle. Accessories flew like overpriced confetti, legs thrashed, arms sprawled, and finally, his cape draped over his head like an accusatory curtain.

"AUGH! My hair!" Aelorian wailed, jerking his cape off his head and lifting a limp, muddy lock of hair like it had personally betrayed him. "Do you know how many centuries it takes to grow ends like these?!"

Thorne stopped walking.

He stared.

And then he snorted. Not just a casual chuckle. Not a human sound at all, but a full, chest-deep, gravel-churning explosion of breath that shook his ribs and made his broad shoulders quake like mountains during an avalanche. It startled a nearby crow from its perch with an indignant squawk, sending it flapping off into the grey sky like it, too, wanted no part in this mess.

The sound echoed—half amusement, half disbelief, and something dangerously close to affection. Like he couldn't quite believe the creature flailing in the muck before him was real. Like the sight of Aelorian, ruined by mud and rage and dignity hanging by a thread, had pierced his armor in the stupidest possible way.

"You absolute oaf!" Aelorian shrieked, flinging a wet clump of something at him that may or may not have been a frog. "Don't just stand there! Help me!"

"You're gonna clog the whole river system," Thorne rumbled, stepping closer with the careful patience of an ogre approaching a very loud, very sparkly minefield. "You're like a lilac stuck in a swamp."

"Oh gods," Aelorian moaned, flopping backward with a soggy squelch, kicking his little booted feet. "Just kill me. Bury me in silk. Tell my nonexistent mother I died tragically moist."

Thorne sighed and leaned down, one large, battle-scarred hand extended, as if offering peace to a particularly troublesome squirrel in designer boots. "Come on then, Mud Petal," he said, voice gruff with amusement. "Get up before the swamp spirits mistake you for a wet snack." 

 Aelorian stared at the outstretched hand as if it were a live snake wrapped in burlap. "Mud what?" he snapped, voice shrill with disbelief. 

 "Petal," Thorne said again, smug now. "Because you're delicate. And dirty. And screaming." 

 The elf's mouth dropped open. "You—! You absolute brick with limbs! That is not a proper term of endearment! That is slander. That is libel. That is emotional violence!" 

 Thorne just wiggled his big sausage fingers. "Do you want help or not?" 

 "Go die in a bog!" Aelorian hissed, but he grabbed Thorne's hand anyway, letting himself be hauled up like a very indignant, very muddy doll. 

 Except—his boots slipped. Again. 

 "Wait—!" Aelorian squeaked, but it was too late. His foot caught on a hidden slick of moss, and he flailed with the grace of a drunken swan. In a desperate, flinging motion, his hand latched onto the nearest solid thing, which just so happened to be Thorne's belt. 

The ogre barely had time to grunt before Aelorian's weight—and wet, flapping cloak—yanked him off balance. There was a loud squelch, a curse from the depths of a hellish vocabulary, and then both of them went down. Right into the mud. Aelorian hit first, squealing, flailing, and somehow managing to elbow Thorne in the nuts, earning a bellow of pain before the Ogre landed beside him with a grunt like a boulder, cursing the earth.

A moment of stillness passed between them, then Aelorian gasped, horrified. "You fell on purpose!"

"You pulled me in!" Thorne barked, half-rising only to sink deeper into the sludge. "And then you elbowed me in the stones!"

"You weigh three hundred Lunari! You could've resisted!"

"I wasn't expecting to be assaulted by a flailing swamp faerie!"

"I am nobility, you slab of granite!" Aelorian screeched, flinging another handful of muck at his chest that made a rather undignified plop when it landed. 

Thorne just sat there in the mud, drenched and blinking. And then he laughed a deep, rough, utterly betraying sound that rumbled out of him like distant thunder.

Aelorian, who had begun desperately squeezing the mud out of his soaked sleeves, froze. "Did you just laugh at me?"

"I laughed at us," Thorne said, still chuckling. "Two idiots in a swamp. One of us in silk. Guess which one."

Aelorian scowled. "I should leave you here."

"You're still holding my belt."

Aelorian made a noise of utter disgust, letting go of Thorn’s belt like it had personally insulted his lineage. "Ugh! Ogre-scented leather!"

"You're welcome," Thorne muttered, dragging himself to his feet with a grunt, mud sliding off him like the forest itself wanted nothing to do with this nonsense. He cracked his neck, flexed one hand, and then hissed low through his teeth.

Aelorian paused, eyes narrowing. "What was that?"

"Nothing."

"That was a pain sound."

"I caught a falling ceiling and you just elbowed me in the dick," Thorne snapped. "Everything hurts."

Aelorian huffed, wringing water out of a floppy sleeve. "Well, I'm emotionally scarred and possibly moldy. Shall we continue our elegant march through the forest of indignity?"

"Gladly," Thorne grunted, turning toward the distant sound of running water.

They walked—if you could call it that. It was more of a mutual squelching. Thorne forged ahead, silent and grim. Aelorian trailed behind, muttering curses under his breath, dragging his ruined cape like it was a dead relative.

"Do you even know where we're going?" he called ahead after a particularly treacherous puddle tried to claim his left boot.

"Yes."

"Are you sure? Because this whole direction smells like wet fungus and despair."

"Keep talking, and I'll throw you in the river instead of letting you bathe in it."

"You wouldn't dare," Aelorian gasped, hands flying to his chest. "You wouldn't defile royalty!"

"You lost diplomatic immunity after you elbowed me in the jewels, elf."

Aelorian opened his mouth to reply—probably to say something cruel and poetic—but at that exact moment, the trees parted and the stream came into view, rushing fast and cold over slick stones. Mist clung to its edges like a veil. It was, tragically, beautiful.

Aelorian's eyes lit up. "Oh, thank the moon. I can finally cleanse myself of this filth."

He strode toward the watery salvation. Rain still drizzled, but the worst of the downpour had passed. Thorne watched him go with narrowed eyes. Watched the way the mud clung to the silk around Aelorian's thighs. The way it stuck to every curve, every line, like a second skin woven by demons from a pretty hell.

And then Aelorian turned, stripping off his ruined cape and throwing it over a boulder with a flair that was entirely unnecessary.

His near-translucent tunic clung to his chest. The fabric dipped low, sagging at the neckline from water weight. And there they were.

Thorne's eyes locked on the nipples.

Pink. Pointed. High and proud. Smug little cherries blessed by a moon goddess and weaponized against ogrekind.

Thorne froze, dead in his tracks. Rain slid down his face. Breath caught in his throat. Brain utterly blank. Two defiant, rain-slicked peaks stared directly at him from beneath a single, traitorous veil of silk. Framed by Aelorian's stupidly sculpted chest and the kind of porcelain skin that had no business surviving a swamp.

"Oh," Thorne said, very quietly, like the world had just tilted on its axis. "No."

Aelorian paused mid-step, halfway to the water, and turned slowly. His long hair dripped in elegant, aggravating strands over his shoulders. His face was neutral—too neutral.

Then his lips curled. Just a little.

"Were you just... staring at my chest?"

Thorne didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there, rooted to the spot.

"Oh gods," Aelorian gasped, bringing both hands to his sternum in mock modesty. "You were!"

"I was not," Thorne lied, sounding like a man on trial for crimes against the crown.

"You looked directly at them."

"I didn't mean to!" he exploded. "They were just—there!"

"Well, yes," Aelorian purred, walking backward toward the stream with the sort of grace that made Thorne want to rip a tree out of the ground. "That's generally where they live."

"I'm not—" Thorne growled, scrubbing his hands over his face and hopefully erasing the memory. "—attracted to elf nipples."

Aelorian gasped again—louder this time, as if Thorne had personally offended the Moon.

"You're not attracted to elf nipples?" he repeated, scandalized. "Mine specifically?!"

"I didn't say that—"

"Oh, so you are attracted to mine."

"NO—"

"You just said you're not attracted to elf nipples," Aelorian said, and came to a stop in the middle of the thrashing stream, cool water swirling around his thighs. "But now you're making an exception?"

"I—You're twisting my words!"

"I'm clarifying your preferences," Aelorian countered, and cocked an elegant eyebrow. "Are you saying my nipples are better than average? Are they exceptional? Are they perhaps... memorable?"

Thorne's mouth flapped open and closed. Nothing escaped but a low, strangled groan.

"I knew it. You want to cum all over them, don't you, ogre?"

Thorne choked.

"You do!" Lori crowed and beamed, winning the battle without lifting a blade. He spun in the stream, arms raised like he was being anointed by rain and victory alike. "You want to get on your ogre knees and offer a tribute to the temple of my sacred pink tits!"

"I am LEAVING," Thorne thundered, turning so fast he slipped slightly on a wet rock and nearly went face-first into a moss-covered log.

Aelorian cackled, the sound musical and merciless. "Admit it! You want to worship at the altar of my princely buds!"

Thorne growled—deep, low, furious. a beast cornered by a glittering, scandalous elf. "I'm not attracted to you," he barked, pointing a dripping, shaking finger. "I'm annoyed by you. I am confused by your entire being. Your nipples are—are—irrelevant."

Aelorian tilted his head. Glanced down at his chest. Observed the tight cling of moon-silk to his skin—the faint gleam of wet fabric across pointed peaks. Then, slowly, theatrically, he cupped them. One in each slender, jeweled hand. "These?" he whispered, fluttering his long lashes. "Irrelevant?" 

Thorne's jaw clenched tight enough to crack stone. His nostrils flared, puffing out like a wild beast trying to reclaim some shred of dignity in the face of absolute madness. Instead, he turned sharply without another word and stalked away, boots squelching with every heavy step.

Over his shoulder, Thorne's voice rumbled low, barely carrying over the soft rain. "I'm going to find us shelter. Try not to get eaten by swamp monsters while I'm gone." The words were blunt, clipped, and wrapped in pure annoyance. There was no softness, no tenderness—just the kind of gruff dismissal that said, 'I don't care,' even when he absolutely did.

Aelorian watched the broad silhouette of the ogre disappear into the mist, boots sinking deep into the mud. Thorne’s movements were a force of nature—unyielding, fierce, and somehow... magnetic.

The ogre lingered in his thoughts. The way the muscles beneath wet skin flexed with every heavy step. The stubborn set of his jaw. The reluctant fire burning behind those molten gold eyes.

He’s stubborn. Proud. Infuriating.

Perfect.

With a slow, deliberate smirk curling his lips, Aelorian crouched beside a mossy rock, flicking mud from his drenched sleeves with theatrical flair. His mind was already busy weaving webs of sabotage—delicate little cracks in Thorne’s ogre armor that only a patient trickster could slip through. Maybe I’ll trip again, he mused. Right in front of him. But on purpose this time. Or perhaps I’ll faint with grace and exhaustion... just enough to make him carry me. Again.

His fingers traced an imaginary map of petty disruptions and dramatic flutters—a slow-burn campaign of “I don’t like you” transforming into “please don’t leave me here alone.”

Aelorian’s grin widened. Sharp. Dangerous. Moonlit. “Let’s see,” he murmured to himself, “how long it takes before the big, grumpy oaf crumbles.”