Brown eyes twinkle cheerfully in the waning sunlight, and the breeze on your skin is somehow cool despite the warmth of the stone against your back. The birdsong that had provided a lovely soundtrack for the trek into the woods has faded, now, with a curious note to what remains. It's almost as if the forest itself is holding its breath right there alongside you, the dappled boughs swaying in the wind.

With a patient smile, I gently set the notebook atop the neatly-folded piles of clothes, the pen clicking shut with a finality that seems to echo in the evening air. If your eyes would wander that way, perhaps, you'd find yourself wondering again just what language was crisply scrawled in spidering lines across the pages of the leather-bound journal, or what sort of research involved studying moss-grown ruins and then sweet-talking wandering strangers into aiding in their study.

But that's not where your eys are wandering, and I raise an eyebrow, a grin tugging at the corners of my lips as my hands settle warmly around your hips. You'd stopped by, curious, and I'd offered my hand, weaving a tale of ancient stones and rites and ruins, voice dipping and raising like the wind around us.

They'd led the maidens here, with flower crowns and the same warm and slick blue-black paint across their skin that the little clay jars in my satchel had contained, I'd said, and by the time you'd stopped to wonder how I'd known about flowers that would hardly last for the millennia between then and now, the sun had set and all that clothing had found itself flowing off like the brook beside.

It was history with a smile, hands running through your hair as we'd sat atop the ruins, and a sense of being small and safe and warm even as the black stone beneath had seemed to leave the grass so far below. When you'd thought to ask what I was studying out here, beneath breathless gasps, I'd simply laughed, the sound old and knowing.

For a moment, as the boughs above sway and my hands take your legs and press them apart, you would swear that there was something of oak and antlers above you, the paint on your skin like an embrace.

"Anthropology," I smile. "The study of humans."

Why, yes, this is another entry to what's developing into something of a long trend of "pleasant forest deity from years and years ago deflowers modern maiden" tales. But what's not to love, really? Those conveniently-sized ruins are right there, after all.

Kinks for this one: Gentle domination, mischievous grins, breeding and the sort of sex that leaves you sore and swaying but with a giddy grin afterward. A few notes of size differences and gentle praise might sneak in there too; you never know!

Cheers, and thank you for reading.

-Werewizard