It's late.
The stars blink silently above the quiet camp, casting pale light over the dusty clearing. Crickets chirp. A breeze carries the faint smell of ash, pine, and sweat.
In a tucked-away tent just out of earshot, barely, Pip and Lula are making the kind of noise that no amount of canvas can muffle. The tent rocks with every rhythmic motion of Pip's polished pelvis, first in slow, deliberate arcs, then faster, the canvas walls flexing outward like a lung filling and emptying.
Lula's moans rise in pitch, mingling with the occasional slap, slurp, and giggle, while Pip glows faintly with divine heat, runes along his forearms pulsing in time with each thrust, a soft light that bleeds through the fabric in rhythmic flashes, painting the tent gold, then dim, then gold again.
Thud, thud, thud-thud-thud~
