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[ he's always been good with his hands, and he uses them now, one bunching the fabric of her shirt while the other moves up and down her back. it's always been easier to believe in something if he can hold it, or twist it into some story, seeing it's similarities to a tale mom had told him or one he's learned himself. slanting his mouth over hers, he can feel her smile burn the curve into his own; it's always been nice to see raven smile, her face lighting up, whether it's at the dogs, at the dragon, at someone else, or at him, but it's been better to feel it. ]

[ despite how distracting her smile might be, he pulls back slightly to keep being a general pain. ] What kind? [ he leans forward to kiss the corner of her mouth, speaking in between pressing his lips near her own. with a murmur, ] I want nice ones.