Good Hygiene

Mira and Elna step into the room a short while later, their faces turning from surprise to amusement as they hear Argon's playful greeting. "Ladies, ladies! Back for more, I see," Argon chortles, a broad grin on his face.

Mira, however, retaliates swiftly, her eyes flashing with a playful challenge. "You're the one who called us here, Lord," she retorts, her tone laced with cheekiness. She lays down a couple of tunics on the table.

Argon laughs, leaning back in his chair, his gaze turning towards the bar of soap Joren had given him earlier. "I thought since you sent me a bar of soap, you wanted to wash me," he teases, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Dream on," Mira shoots back, her cheeks tinged with a blush. Her feisty response elicits another hearty laugh from Argon.

"That was an order, actually," Argon counters, his tone firm but not unkind. He watches with satisfaction as Mira's confident facade wavers for a moment, her mouth opening slightly in surprise.

On the other side of the room, Elna's attention is solely on Brolan. Her gaze softens as she asks after his well-being, her tone warm and gentle. Brolan returns her smile, his eyes lighting up at her concern.

Argon watches their interaction, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Why can't you be more like your friend, Mira?" he comments, his gaze drifting back to Mira, a playful challenge in his eyes.

A smoky laugh ripples through the room as Mira raises an eyebrow at Argon, her voice laden with sarcasm. "Whatever. Pass me a fucking basin. I'll get some water."

Argon shrugs, lounging back in his chair, a smug grin playing on his lips. "Don't know where one is. You'll have to fucking find it."

Not missing a beat, Mira rolls her eyes and starts rummaging through the cabinets until she finally finds what she's looking for. With a satisfied nod, she clutches the basin tightly and heads out the door.

As the door swings shut behind her, Brolan clears his throat awkwardly, his gaze shifting to Argon. "I'm off to bed, Master," he announces, already making his way towards the stairs.

"Yeah, right. It's not even dark yet, you lying cunt," Argon retorts, his voice echoing through the room. Brolan laughs, accepting his chastisement in good humour.

With a final nod, Brolan ascends the stairs with his woman, leaving Argon downstairs in the dim light. His laughter gradually fades into silence, the room filled only with the soft crackling of the fire.

Restless with boredom and clutching the soap Joren handed him earlier, Argon leaves the house, Argon spots Dolan industriously working on drying the meat.

"Oi, Dolan, where the fuck is the nearest stream?" Argon asks, his voice slicing through the peaceful afternoon hum.

Dolan, having been thoroughly engrossed in his work, jumps at the sudden demand. He wipes his hands on his apron before responding, pointing vaguely in the direction. "Runs straight through the middle of the village, my lord. Head east, then a slight turn south. Can't miss it."

"And another thing," Argon interjects before Dolan can return to his work, "Cook up some of that fresh troll meat and distribute it amongst the villagers. More nutritious when it's fresh."

Dolan nods a hint of surprise visible on his face. "Yes, my lord," he agrees, already mentally preparing for the task ahead. Argon leaves him to it; his mind occupied with the prospect of a bath in the stream.

After a short trek through the village, Argon spots Mira in the stream, the water glinting around her as she works to collect it between two houses.

"Well, there you are, you slow bitch," he snarls, startling her. "What's taking so fucking long?"

She spins to face him, a slight scowl on her face. "Not everything can be done at the snap of your fingers, you know."

Before she can say anything else, Argon closes the distance between them and captures her lips with his own. She stiffens in surprise, her words swallowed by his abrupt, unexpected kiss.

"Alright, wash me," Argon commands, thrusting the bar of soap into Mira's hands. He proceeds to shed his armour and tunic, leaving his body exposed to the elements. Tall, muscular, and stocky, his physique is more akin to a mountain than a man's. The youthful gauntness that once clung to him is replaced by bulk, evidence of his daily feasting till his belly nearly bursts. He sinks into the stream, the cool water swirling around his frame.

"Now get to work, wench," he grumbles, his gaze expectant and a touch daring as he watches Mira.

Reluctant but resigned, Mira starts her task. She hesitates for a moment before plunging the soap into the water, creating a gentle whirl of bubbles that pop and dance on the surface. Her delicate hands, toughened by years of toil, lather the soap between her fingers. Tiny white bubbles foam and rise, catching the sunlight as they spread around her.

With her gaze lowered, she starts on Argon's broad shoulders. Her fingers trace the hills and valleys of his muscular form, applying the soap in steady, circular movements. The coarse hair on his chest is tamed under her ministrations, laying flat against his skin as the soap navigates its terrain.

She carefully avoids his piercing gaze, focusing her attention on the task at hand. Her fingers glide over his abdomen, tracing the hard planes of his body. She can feel the solid muscle beneath the layer of fat that has accumulated from the feasts he's been indulging in. Even at rest, his body holds an aura of unrelenting power, his strength evident in the expanse of his chest and the firmness of his arms.

Argon's legs are as solid and powerful as the rest of him, thick with muscle and speckled with coarse hair. Mira works her way down, her hands slipping over his calves and then up to his thighs. Her movements are methodical and reserved, maintaining a professional distance despite the intimate nature of her task.

Rinsing off the soap is a ritual in itself. Mira scoops handfuls of the cool stream water, letting it trickle over Argon's skin. It cascades down his body, carrying the soap and grime with it, leaving his skin cleansed and glistening under the dimming sunlight.

All the while, Argon remains still, his gaze focused on the horizon, allowing Mira to complete her task. There's a stillness to him, a tranquillity that he rarely displays, his usual harshness momentarily replaced by a serene acceptance of the situation.

Argon's hands find her waist as he hoists Mira onto him. Her body is warm, inviting, pressing back against him. She makes a small sound of protest, "People will see..." she whispers nervously, glancing around the secluded area they've found themselves in.

Argon's response is coarse, his tone dismissive, "Who the hell cares? I own this shithole." His possessive assertion echoes around them, a grim reminder of his authority. Mira gasps as Argon takes her, her fingers clutching onto his muscular arms.

Driven by a primal instinct, Argon moves with a fervour that is both intense and quick. He presses himself into her, she gasps, and he begins his strong movements. His breaths are heavy, the rhythm of their bodies matching the pounding of his heart. The thought of being seen, of taking what he wants without care or concern, sends an erotic thrill down his spine.

As quickly as it began, it ended. Argon's movements falter, and then still, a satisfied growl escaping his lips. His heart pounds in his chest, his breathing ragged, the taste of victory sweet on his lips. He pulls back, his gaze finding Mira's flushed face. His hands leave her body as he moves away, the echo of their intimate moment fading into the running water of the stream.

Mira's touch is gentle yet firm. She glides the bar of soap once again across Argon's broad shoulders, working it into a rich lather that slides down his muscular back. Her hands trace patterns on his skin, washing away the dirt and grime of the day. Argon leans back into her touch, the cool water of the stream doing little to temper the heat that radiates from him.

She kneels behind him, carefully washing the lower half of his body. Her fingers slide along his thighs, coaxing away the layer of dirt and sweat. Her touch is methodical yet intimate, a silent promise of the night to come. Finally, she washes his feet, her touch sending an unexpected shiver up his spine.

Once finished, Argon rises from the water. His skin feels refreshingly cool against the evening air, the water droplets on his body glinting in the fading light. He pulls on his tunic and pants, the fabric clinging to his still-damp skin. The two of them make their way back to their dwelling, the stream fading behind them.

Back in their room, Argon undresses again. He pulls on the fresh tunic Mira had brought, the fabric soft against his skin. They crawl into bed together, their bodies tangling in the soft sheets. Their night is filled with passion, their bodies moving together until exhaustion claims them. As they drift to sleep in each other's arms, the night falls quiet, wrapping them in its peaceful embrace.