Swinging her leg over the saddle, Primrose dropped from Valentine’s back with a soft thud.  The ground was soft beneath her feet and Valentine’s muscles twitched under her hands sides still heaving from the tough work and sweat dripping down his flanks.  Prim felt the same: flushed and breathing hard: they’d had an excellent workout on the fences[1] in the indoor ring and they both needed a cool down: the walk back to the barn was always suitable. 

Flicking the reins over his head, Prim paused a moment to fondly rub his nose and cheek.  Valentine pressed into her hand and blew a puff of air out of his nose.  “Come on,” Prim let her hand travel down his neck before patting his withers and clicking her tongue to get him back into motion.

She kept the stroll leisurely, despite the chill of the evening February air.  It was her favorite time of day: the sun was already set, the barn lights glowing in the distance while the world around her was all quiet.  She could hear her feet and Valentine’s hooves crunching on the frosted ground, she could hear both of their breath, and the distant sounds of the other horses (eager for an evening feeding, no doubt).  In the spring and summer there’d be crickets, no doubt, some stray birds… but in the winter, it was just quiet. 

The twenty-minute walk went by quickly and they crossed the threshold of the barn right into Prim’s surprise: her father.  He was usually up and about, but earlier in the day.  Raising her eyebrows, Prim tilted her head, “Midnight ride?” she quipped, the corners of her mouth curling upward afterward. 

Valentine slowed to match her crawling pace while her father’s attention shifted from one of the stalls to his daughter.  “No, no,” he motioned her over to the stall and Prim knew immediately: Blue, their granian.  She was heavily pregnant and when Prim finally peered in, walking in circles, flicking her wings in agitation.  “I’ve alerted the ministry – called for a handler,” he informed her plainly, “Tonight’s the night.” 

Prim nodded with understanding: she did appear to be exhibiting all of the symptoms of getting ready to give birth.  “You didn’t have to write in for anyone, Papa,” she snorted, “You know I’ve overseen deliveries before.”  At least three, she almost made a point of saying so. 

“True,” he did not need her to – he obviously remembered, “but not like this.”  She opened her mouth, but he raised his hand, “wings,” he said pointedly (fair – maybe that wasn’t her strength), “and the foal is a racing prospect.[2] All must go well.” 

Prim wrinkled her nose.  She didn’t like to be told no.  “I still think you’re being ridiculous,” she informed him, “I’d be perfectly capable.” Her desire to be right and argue about it overrode her trust in her father’s decision making.  It wasn’t common for them to disagree, but it wasn’t unheard of. 

“Too late,” he quipped back, eyes straying back to the winged mare. 

Primrose sighed and shrugged.  “I can wait,” she finally told him.  “You know, since you’re determined to call others in.  I’ve got to clean up and groom,” she motioned her head toward Valentine who knickered as he bobbed his head, nose pressing to the back of her arm.  Impatient devil.  “I’ll make sure Blue is taken care of,” she smiled, “trust me.” 

The exchange continued for a bit, her father joining her as she moved toward the cross ties and where Valentine’s halter hung on one of the hooks.  She easily switched the bridle for the halter and put him on the cross ties before promising to stay and make sure all was well with Blue and the handler.  Besides, Prim knew she could do it better.  She had to see for herself what her father had called for. 

And she didn’t really want him about.  This had become Prim’s space and more of her father’s hobby than anything.  He wanted to own a prize-winning race winged horse, he didn’t do any training and hadn’t ridden in years – his back, you know.  She had to turn down her Valentine and set about the routine of grooming after a hard workout.[3]  She liked doing this part alone anyway, and hummed quietly to herself as she started to remove tack and gather her grooming supplies.  The only sound, at the moment, to keep her company were the stirrings of the horses enjoying their evening meal in the replenishing buckets. 

1.	Example
2.	Winged horse racing
3.	After Ride Care

The very first thing Grigory did upon upon stepping out onto the Woolfolk grounds was sneeze, hard enough to rattle, because fuck winter, seriously.

It blew into England cold as January, bringing with it promises of rain, snow, and little reprieve. Temperatures dropped even further with the passage of the sun, plunging the last hours of the day somewhere closer to freezing. Even the very grass seemed to shake with it, blades shivering at the slightest gust of wind. The cold was the wet kind, too—the one that came after a swim and seeped into a man’s bones.

But there was nothing to be done about it. In the midst of it all, Grigory found himself squinting beneath the lights the lined the beaten path, all the way to the barn, grey toque tugged low over his face and hands shoved deep into his pockets. The very handler sent by the Ministry, he would oversee the foaling of Calvin Woolfolk’s prize granian. Normally he would have been all over that; a birth was always preferable to an emergency, and the sight of a wobbly-kneed foal never failed to make him grateful for his lot in life. But the burly wizard had Vast and Complicated Feelings about the cold that ran deep, bypassing simple hatred and tangling with stubborn Russian pride. A rich man’s hobby didn’t quite contend with such things.

Still, a job was a job and Grigory, apparently, was the man to do it. With a disgusted snort he pulled his coat around him more tightly, shoulders hunching like that might keep away the cold, and began making his way to the barn. Much to his relief, a flood of warmth rushed to greet him almost as soon as he stepped foot within its immediate perimeters.

He went to push the door open, but instead the great door slid out of his way, leaving him to look around the barn in all its well-lit glory. He gulped in the less than chilly air. After a moment of quiet appreciation, he looked back down the aisle and took another breath. “Woolfolk?” He ventured a few steps further into the barn, glancing into the stalls on both sides and seeing only horses—happy horses, but horses nonetheless. Heavy brows furrowed.

Primrose placed the last hoof down on the ground, satisfied that she had brushed and picked to the highest quality.  Nothing was left but to take Valentine to his stall and then wait.  Valentine nickered and bobbed his head, to which Prim smiled and ran her hands over his back one more time – checking for any residual dampness. 

Even though the barn was heated and comfortable, she didn’t want to leave him damp.  Summoning the towel from one of the pegs on the wall, Prim made quick work of it and returned the towel to its hook before turning back to Valentine.  She might have wished for her own  “Are you ready?” she cooed at him and add his lead line before she unclipped the crossties. 

She had anticipated he would nicker or snort, but instead… ”Woolfolk?”  Prim blinked for a second before the realization set upon her: the handler!  The brief clench of anxiety in her chest dissipated and Prim clicked her tongue to bring Valentine around the corner of the barn.   The exertion of the ride combined with strenuous cleaning left Prim flushed and her cheeks rosy as she turned the corner toward Valentine’s stall – and the handler who had arrived.

She anticipated seeing one of her father’s silver haired friends, a frequent guest at parties and one who at least kept conversation lively with anecdotes.  But that wasn’t quite the case, Primrose realized as she did not recognize the handler as someone in her father’s circle.  Though, she was certain she’d seen him before, despite not working in the same wing.  “Hello,” she greeted, lifting her free hand to give a little wave.  “I’ll be with you in a moment,” she called out.

Primrose stopped short at Valentine’s stall where the door slid open and she guided the horse inside.  The door slid shut as Valentine made his way for feed, leaving Prim to wipe her hands on her riding pants before turning again.  “So sorry,” she apologized, finally able to concentrate and turn back to the guest.  He was definitely different than she anticipated: tall and was he sick?  Of course, leave it to Papa to summon the only sick handler during February.  She'd have a talk with him later about it - really, when he could have just left her in charge.  “So sorry to disturb you for something so routine,” something I could have done myself, “But, Papa insisted,” she shrugged. “I can show you to the foaling stall? And a cup of tea?”  she ventured to guess it would help alleviate some of the redness about his face.

If Grigory blinked at the feminine voice, then he definitely stared at the sight of a rosy cheeked Prim; he was pretty sure this wasn’t the Woolfolk he was told to expect. Distractedly he tugged off the toque and patted down his hair. She didn’t seem to recognize him, though he couldn’t claim the same. At some point a coworker had pointed her out to him, expression pinched with distaste. Woolfolk, he’d been told as a flutter of skirts and robes stalked past. Werewolf wing, hates werewolves.

He had suspected that was oversimplifying things. Russia had their own views about werewolves, but after his first few months on Level Four, he had come to understand that while Britain, too, saw it as a disease, they were much nicer about it. Grigory had watched her go, thoughtful, but then the radio had crackled with news of another emergency, and there was no more time to think about witches or werewolves.

There was none of that to be seen now, though, as she emerged, cheeks flushed and horse in tow—or when she faced him, making apologies and offering tea. Brown eyes snapped up guiltily before she could catch them.

“Is fine. Both, please,” he replied carefully, stuffing the grey hat into a pocket. He had strong opinions about English tea, but a cup would at least give him something else to focus on. Up close, the flush was much more noticeable. Grigory unwound the scarf from his neck and undid the first top buttons of his coat, hooking a finger into the collar to loosen it up.

She smiled. “This way,” she said, waving at him to follow, and set off.

Grigory tried not to look down.

“How is mare?” he asked as they made their way to the stall, latching onto the purpose of his visit with new – well, purpose. “Everything fine?” The message would have said if things weren’t, but just to be safe…

Primrose nodded curtly when he indicated that he’d like to go to the stall and have some tea.  If there was any other distraction present for the handler, she was hard pressed to notice it.  With Valentine properly taken care of, she was able to focus completely.  Primrose tilted her head; hadn’t he had a hat on moments ago? 

Whatever the case, he also had winter things to take care of – signified by the removal of the scarf and the buttons popping open – it was warm in the barn, she realized, and winter things might get cumbersome (and dirty) during a birth. 

After showing him to the stall, she’d offer to take his things and bring them to the tack room.  Waving him along, Prim fell into long (for her) strides toward the end of the barn where the birthing stall was located – a little removed from the rest of the population.  “Restless,” Primrose answered matter-of-factly, “obviously Blue’s feeling some discomfort: contractions,” she explained plainly and referred to the horse by name (like an old friend and much less an animal)– well, nickname, her registered name was something ridiculous that she never quite remembered.

Those names were for the announcers at events, not the person who lovingly fed carrot spice treats and stroked her velvet nose.  “Everything seems to be proceeding normally though,” she explained, “her water hasn’t broken yet,” she added.  That was about when she’d been with her father at the very same door, looking in on the very same winged horse who was pacing and pawing the ground.  Her wings were folded by her sides and the straw bedding (shavings were not recommended for birthing) was mussed – she’d clearly been up and down in the past half hour. 

Though Prim herself had obviously never experienced birth, she could only imagine what their horse was going through – particularly giving birth to something roughly seventy to ninety pounds.  If she took her mother’s stories to heart, even seven pounds seemed like a feat of monstrous proportions.  Taking pause to look into the stall, Primrose let out a deep breath: poor thing.  “It’s her first foal,” she revealed pityingly, eyes still trained on the horse who she could see was damp with perspiration. 

Rolling her shoulders, Primrose turned swiftly on her heel to face him – well, sort of – she needed to look up, actually.  “I can take those,” she motioned to the scarf and his coat, “while I fix that tea,” she informed him with her hands out to accept the winter wear.  Coat and scarf draped over her arms, Prim gave a close lipped smile, “I’ll be back in a moment,” she turned and tried not to focus on the fact that the coat was huge – she was afraid it might drag on the floor, as well as how there was a hint of spice that curled its way into her nose, even amidst the smells of the barn. 

She stepped into the tack room and made quick work of hanging up his clothes (and maybe… just you know, seeing if it was his scarf that smelled good – it was) and dug in the cabinet above the desk for her kettle and cups.  There was black tea, plain, but it would do, up there as well.

She removed her wand from her pocket and poured water into the kettle before dipping the tip inside to heat it to perfect temperature.  Taking the time to brew tea properly gave her a moment to think.   Her eyes drifted back over to the coat and scarf.  Think, indeed she chastised herself and made quick work of the rest of the process before carrying the two mugs out. 

“I trust everything looks in order, Mr...?” she raised her eyebrows as she approached again, extending his mug toward him. “We don’t keep lemons or milk in the barn,” she said in lieu of an apology, “but it should be passable.”  She took a sip and scrunched her face, “to keep us alert, anyhow.” 

The stall looked good, that much could be said. The bedding looked fresh and plentiful, the boards were so smooth they could pass as a single panel, and the stall itself was spacious, roomy enough for pacing but cozy enough to be comfortable. The air was warm but clean. Anyone could tell it was the finest foaling stall money could buy.

But more than that was the easy way with which Miss Woolfolk used Blue’s everyday name. Though Grigory still sometimes fumbled for the word, it came across clear as day.

He was still watching Prim when she offered to take his things, and as they were neatly folded over her arms. The movement was… brisk. Precise. It matched the rest of her, all the way down to the soles of those boots—but brought to attention all the things that weren’t, too. He could only manage a stiff nod before she left, and noisily exhaled when he was sure she couldn’t hear.

Tea. Right.

Blue was beautiful, though. She was sleek and grey, as all paragons of her breed were, but even through the restlessness he could see the care that was put into her on a regular basis. Hair and coat were obviously combed, devoid of dirt or tangles. Round with foal, she was the picture of health. Grigory would have approached if it weren’t for that very fact.

To stave off temptation, he settled for unbuttoning his sleeves as well. He must have been staring at the mare for longer than he thought, because Prim returned just as he began rolling them up.

“Gonchar,” he supplied, gaze dropping to the mugs. Gingerly he accepted his, cracking a very small smile in return, and looked back into the stall. “Everything fine – good,” he amended, when he realized that might not be enough. “Stall clean, safe. Lots of room.” He was sure that if he looked beneath the bedding, he wouldn’t find a single crack, splinter, bump or loose nail, either.

Blue was still pacing, so he offered Prim a smile then, one that went a little deeper than just a corner, eyes warm and just a little hooded. “Have pretty witch look after her.” He raised his mug to his lips, smile suddenly teasing. “Look after all papa’s horses?”

Prim was surprised when she returned and Mr. Gonchar’s sleeves were rolled up. “Everything alright?” she asked nervously, her pace picking up: she immediately thought there must be something wrong with Blue.  Her eyes darted into the stall, worried she might see Blue in distress.  There was an instant sense of relief as soon as she saw the horse was just as she had been when Prim had left: uncomfortable, but still up and pacing.

Letting out the breath she had been holding, Prim nodded: everything was fine. She hoped, for Blue’s sake, it wasn’t a long or difficult labor. 

After taking another sip of her tea, Prim nodded.  “We’ve had three births on the grounds,” she explained, “four now,” motioning to Blue.   This was meant to, of course, explain the foaling stall.  The last three foals had been sold, but Papa was determined to keep the granian foal.  His little racing prodigy, he had boasted at Christmas.  Prim wasn’t sure, but she knew no expense would be spared for training.  Though, she supposed as she considered the prospect that she was jumping the gun as much as her Papa had been. 

Distracted by the sounds around her and the fleeting thoughts of a prize racehorse coming from their stables, her head turned at the sound of his voice and when what he said finally processed, well, Prim felt her cheeks heating up.  She sputtered rather indelicately into the top of her mug and averted her eyes. 

Mortifying!

Reaching up, she tried to wipe the space under her nose as discreetly as possible.  He couldn’t mean… Prim cleared her throat and managed to peer up at him.  He was smiling.  Oh goodness.  She felt a clench in her chest and despite herself, she giggled.  Oh Merlin! she actually giggled.  That made her cheeks turn even pinker. 

The best choice, obviously, was to ignore it and move on to the thing that was easy for her to answer.  “My horses,” she corrected, “Well, mostly mine.” She paused for a second, get herself together and whatnot, and she licked her lips.  “I mean, I manage the barn,” she explained. 

“I was going to oversee the foaling myself,” she started to talk again, forgetting herself, “But Papa insisted.”  When she realized what she said, she blinked and oh Merlin! “I mean, of course I don’t mind, it’s always good to have another pair of hands about!” Another nervous laugh and Prim covered up the miserably embarrassed expression on her face with her mug. 

For a moment, Grigory thought he had failed. Yet as she told him, very serious, about the past foalings and her father’s expectations for this one, he couldn’t help but find himself smiling slightly at it anyway. If horses were her father’s hobby, then it was obvious they were her passion. How could he begrudge her for that?

But then his words seemed to finally sink in and he watched her become flustered—blushed, sputtered, looked away. Widely he grinned, utterly endeared and not a little pleased; she seemed even more struck by her own giggle than he had.

Grigory leaned against the door frame in a comfortable slouch, free hand tucked behind his back to cushion it from the hard edge. To his ever-growing amusement, Prim seemed determined to move past it… only to succeed in embarrassing herself further. Still, he took pity, in case she withheld all giggles in the near future. “I get,” he reassured her, giving her a smile he hoped showed that he really did understand. “Your horses, your job, da?” He meant it not as a chore, but as a matter of pride.

He didn’t know how to put it in so many words, though, so he dug into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, flipping it open. Tucked behind the plastic was a photograph of Perun and Lelya, the latter gnawing harmlessly on the bigger dog’s ear. Grigory leaned in, turning it towards Prim so that she could see better–

And caught a whiff of, of something—something floral, light, and unmistakably feminine. They were, he realized, really close.

He swallowed.

“She two months,” he said, pointing out the puppy with his thumb. His voice came out a little hoarse, rougher than usual; he cleared his throat. “Lots of energy, big handful. Have to train. Have to bathe always. Can ask for help, but – I’m do it myself.” He met her eyes with a soft, crooked smile, a little bashful but mostly proud. “Want to.”


A trickle of water – liquid – noisily hit the bedding.

She didn’t expect that at all. 

Prim slowly turned her eyes toward him, still feeling the warmth in her cheeks.  A slow smile crept over her features and she nodded.  “Just like that,” she agreed, “Honestly, my papa just likes to brag about the stable,” she continued with a little laugh and shook her head.  “I’ve been doing a majority of the work for years,” Prim pointed out, but hastily – and sincerely added, “I love it though – I don’t mind.”  Truthfully, Prim loved few things: her family, being right or winning, and her animals.  The list didn’t extend far beyond that: and even her comfortably retired (and somewhat lazy) father fell into that bucket. 

While matriarch Woolfolk wanted to use any free time she could muster away from her consulting and projects to travel… Papa was content to golf with his friends and drink brandy while smoking cigars (that bit, Prim would never understand).  Shifting the mug in her hands, she was slightly disappointed that it was going lukewarm and she’d barely touched it. 

For the best, she supposed.  It wasn’t that good.  But it was keeping her alert… or provided a distraction.  Correction: a safe distraction.  Too late now though, she figured and deposited the mug on the shelving unit near the door of the stall.  (Bless Papa for thinking of such a thing.)   In the moment she took to rid herself of the cup, Mr. Gonchar removed his wallet from his pocket and Prim was momentarily confused.

That was until the contents were revealed to her: far more important than any lingering knuts and sickles, mind, was a precious photo of two dogs – worlds apart from one another.  The tiny one was clamoring upon the other, seemingly as no bother to the large one. 

Now, Prim usually prided herself on having schooled expressions and reactions, controlling herself – but… no such luck.  A tiny gasp of delight puffed out of her mouth and she shuffled closer to be able to peer closely at the picture, a wide and unrestrained smile spreading across her angular face.  Prim found herself clasping her hands in front of herself and she   “Darlings!” she chirped, eyes trained on the movement of the picture, even as he spoke. A sound that could only be described as a whine seemed to come out of her mouth, “how precious.” 

The warmth of her smile could perhaps only be outdone by the presence of body heat right next to her and Prim glanced sideward while attempting to keep her face pointed toward the picture.  Her peripheral vision was filled with the man’s sweater… Ah yes! Talking – right!  She missed the way he cleared his throat as she tried to focus on what he was saying (in addition to trying to ignore warmth).  “I'm the same way,” Prim appraised with a beaming smile and noted, “I have a dog as well: Honey,” she supplied the name easily – since her animals were more like her children than pets, they all required introduction.  “Standard poodle,” she added, “though I dare say, a different kind of cute to this one,” she had turned – having to tilt her chin up quite high to look at his face – especially so close…  Prim chuckled nervously and despite her best efforts was having a hard time looking away. 

She would have said something about it, but the sudden rush – a sound!  Her head spun and she was greeted with an excellent sign.  “Her water broke!” Prim declared and reached out to grab his forearm with a bright, exciting smile.  “A half hour yet!” she announced with glee: having memorized the timetables before things would require the experienced hand of a handler.  Her hand remained on his bare forearm as she turned to face the stall: she’d completely missed that Blue had laid down. 

“How exciting,” she breathed.  No matter how routine, it was still miraculous.  The mare vocalized loudly and Prim watched her sides shake with heavy breaths.  She glanced back over to him, her heart beating hard in anticipation: “I’ve never seen a winged birth before.”

Grigory looked up, too, and perked up at the sight.

Like most births, a foaling was fairly simple, and the birth itself almost never took long. If everything went smoothly, the mother needed very little assistance; usually it really did take about fifteen minutes. At most Grigory could only make sure the mother was as comfortable as possible—maybe speed things along by giving the foal a hand. Prim had been right, in that he didn’t have to be called for this. Racing prospects or not, one person would have been more than enough.

But though the process was cut and dry, Grigory never got tired of it. This was life, new life. And babies were cute, no matter how old they were or what they were. Helping them enter the world was a reward in and of itself. That and… well…

Prim’s hand was a warm weight on his arm. As she faced the stall, Grigory carefully set his mug on the nearest shelf and transferred his wallet to his other hand. “Same as other horse births,” he said, that little teasing grin returning as he put his wallet away. “Still horse.”

But they waited. They waited until the first hoof appeared, until the rest of the foal followed and was tucked into her mother’s side. They waited another hour until all messes were had and dealt with. Taking a step back, Grigory looked at Prim and grinned. It was not the first of such smiles shared; that had been considerably shyer, once they realized they were fawning over something in front of a relative stranger—in Russian for Grigory, English for Prim, sure, but despite the difference in language the other’s admiration was easy to read.

“We make good team,” he said, gently bumping her with his arm. He spared mother and foal a brief jerk of his chin, before gaze and grin were on Prim again, brown eyes twinkling mischievously. “Maybe you have my job instead.”

So, Grigory had been right: it was still a horse, no matter the wings.  The same process, and it all went fairly quickly (a good sign).  There were no complications; the little grey foal was brought into the world without even a helping hand from the two highly capable people overseeing.  It was exciting though, still.  Even the bits that were not quite so pleasant didn’t seem so bad when the mess could be cleared away and all that was left were the two horses. 

Seeing the wobbly-legged filly’s first attempts to stand, the way her mother curiously nuzzled her – a sure sign that they would bond… Prim’s chest felt tight with pride, especially as the filly-with-no-name’s muzzled tucked under her mother, age old instinct kicking in.  Prim leaned her weight against the gate, tilting her head to the side as she watched.  It was beautiful.  She imagined Mr. Gonchar thought so too, even if they probably couldn’t understand one another. 

At least she couldn’t understand him.  It was probably unfair, considering the circumstance, since he could obviously understand whatever she said… When he did speak to her again though, Prim felt her cheeks burn.  “I guess we do,” she agreed, somewhat shyly while biting the inside of her bottom lip, “I think you’re safe in keeping your job though,” she assured him, “I won’t steal it.” Her smile, for the first time in the conversation, matched his in mischief! 

Pushing herself off the wall, she sighed and glanced down at the sleek, silver band around her wrist.  “Oh my!” the arms on the face were dreadfully close to one another, “It’s almost midnight,” she informed him with a little yawn and shook her head, “I hadn’t realized it was so late.” 

Prim rolled her shoulders and stretched her arms back behind herself, “We should schedule the follow up,” she thought out loud and turned toward him, “The calendar is in the tack room,” she informed him, “along with your coat and things…” Prim busied herself with grabbing the two mugs to take back as well.  She led the way to the tack room,  her footsteps brisk despite the heaviness she felt in her shoulders and back.  They had been standing, as it turned out, for quite a long time and Primrose hadn’t really relaxed her muscles since before her ride…

Realizing this made a familiar sort of ache creep up in her lower back and she inwardly cursed herself: getting older was no treat, as it turned out.  At least when they entered the room, Primrose was able to quickly make her way to the desk and pull out the agenda she kept in the top drawer.  Charmed to match an identical one she kept in her bag, she liked to have all of her obligations in one place but the convenience of working in two. 

With agenda and in hand, Prim gave herself a little rise off of the ground and finally sat down, just on the top of desk instead of in a proper place.  Flicking open the planner, Primrose crossed her ankles and bit on the end of the quill in thought.  She had a very big presentation this upcoming week… she was quite booked.  “Do you think next weekend is too late?” her eyes flicked up, “I mean… oh, you’re busy too,” her shoulders slumped and she dropped her hands (and the agenda) into her lap.  “Perhaps an owl would be better?” 

Prim smiled apologetically, shifting her eyes to make – and hold - contact. Prim moved to put the agenda onto the desk and rested her palms against the edge, fingers curling around the wood.  Perhaps unconsciously – or because all of a sudden her lips felt very dry, her tongue darted out to wet them before asking, “Should I reach out in the morning?”

Her smile, Grigory saw, wasn’t perfect. Scrunched up and a little awkward-looking, a little tentative and shy, there was a kind of newness about it that suggested it didn’t happen very often. But it was also toothy and bright, reminding him of the newborn foal herself. On Prim, it was just plain endearing.

And endlessly attractive.

Fuck, thought Grigory, staring after her helplessly as he followed her into the tack room. Every long stride somehow held a note of finality between his ears. Fuck.

The office was as he had left it, all warm wood and fine leather, the array of ribbons adorning the trophy wall, colorful, impressive, and proudly displayed. He tried to focus on it. When Prim perched herself atop the edge of the desk, he gave up completely. His feet practically – if slowly – carried him halfway to the desk. It was like walking through molasses.

He slowed, the first time she looked up at him, and stopped when she slumped, her disappointment catching. She was right. After tonight, he wouldn’t have any reason to be here. A checkup might be in order, but with the foal clearly in capable hands it would be a formality at best. It would just be delaying the inevitable.

But…

Unlike her job, his was more flexible. Unpredictable? Some things were scheduled, but they were more like… approximations, rather than fact. The ones that weren’t were usually emergencies, and consequently prepared for by assigning shifts. There had to be someone he could switch with. Grigory started towards the desk again; maybe she might let him take a look at the calendar himself, too–

And then… she set it aside. Met his gaze. Held it.

Licked her lips.

Grigory tried not to look as struck as he felt. His eyes, as they had been since they left the stall – since he first saw her – tracked the movement helplessly.

On the desk, Prim was only slightly taller. But even without it she was still tall enough, that even a little stooping on his part went a long way. “Can reach any time,” he murmured, dragging his gaze up from her lips as he lightly, gently, rested a hand on her knee. His head lowered, their mouths were very, very close. “Can reach now, if like.”

In the midst of lamenting their schedule predicament, Primrose hadn’t noticed how close Grigory had actually gotten.  It just hadn’t even… crossed her mind, she guessed, but right now it seemed important.  So, all of a sudden, her mouth was a little dry and the room seemed impossibly small, like the walls were closing in or something.  Maybe it was just the wall of him in front of her.  That had to be it. 

And had it gotten warmer? 

Prim almost commented on it, but when she opened her mouth she couldn’t even make a sound.   She even tried to clear her throat, but couldn’t even find the gumption to do it. 

Instead, she just sat helplessly as he leaned in closer, impossibly and frustratingly close.  Prim felt frozen in her seat, finding it hard to even process the sound of his voice.  Her own scrambled thoughts seemed to drown out the sounds coming from outside of her head. 

Maybe she wasn’t hearing properly, but she certainly felt: the press of weight onto her leg – she didn’t even have to look down to see what was happening.  Her eyes were otherwise occupied anyway, trained onto the drowsy looking brown ones of the man currently hunched over her. 

The impossibility of a choice was here: the invitation was open and placed squarely on her shoulders.  Warm breath tickled her face and what a tempting invitation it was.  The adrenaline of the foaling had subsided a little, but every smile shared flashed through her mind and the way it made her stomach twist in that oh so familiar way…

She could do this: she could make this choice.  Perhaps for the first time in what felt like months, Prim could be entirely selfish and have something just for her.  In the barn she wasn’t worried about who she was or what she had to do, she was just Prim.  And just Prim could do whatever she wanted.  She could do what she really wanted - and everything at this moment that she wanted was right here. 

Closing the distance between them, she pretended to have all of the confidence in the world.  Her eyes closed and she exhaled against his lips, finding the will to pry her fingers off the edge of the desk.  One hand found its way on top of his on her leg, like an anchor and the other caught the underside of his jaw (she hoped that wasn’t her nail).  His skin was warm under her hands and even though her heart was racing and her skin was flushed... Primrose couldn't bring herself to care.  This was a good choice.

Full lips were every bit as soft as they had looked and more, breathtaking in a way he could never have predicted. The sparking feeling in his stomach flared as she covered his hand with her own. Her other – her enthusiasm – kept him in place, encouraging and sure, more secure than any rope. He went hot all over.

Neither, however, kept Grigory so firmly within the moment as much as the kiss itself. Slowly his hand slid up to her thigh, her hip. Clasping the back of her neck – pulling her closer – he deepened it, slotting their mouths together until breath came short, lips parting on a soft, guttural groan. It wasn’t long before there was tongue, little filthy sounds he was only vaguely aware of getting louder and louder–

And yet. And yet, Prim still wasn’t close enough. Perched as she was on the desk, a step forward saw him bumping into her knees; they were dangerously close to his groin. The rest of her, however, were just too far.

“Yebát’,” Grigory muttered, pulling back a little. It was distinctly the opposite of what he wanted, and only gave him a better view of ruddy lips and cheeks high with color that made him think of other things—a look no doubt mirrored on his own face. But now, like this, with a little more air between them… It was easier to remember that there was still more than them outside the tack room. The office wasn’t hers, and the foal that had been the reason for his visit– It was a sobering reminder as much as it was a source of a high, an adrenaline rush.

He met Prim’s eyes, his own brown ones so dark they were nearly black. “Keep going?” Callused fingers slipped under her jacket, stroking lightly where pale cotton and little more were the only barrier. Long as they were, they brushed against rib—easily registered through cloth.

Everything was warm: hands, breath, body. Prim felt her stomach tighten.  She wasn’t sure if she was guiding his hand up her leg, or if he was doing it on his own (not that it mattered), but she scooted as far forward as she could, huffing in protest as there was no room to go anywhere.  This was not ideal.

For a moment, it had been so easy to forget everything.  Nerves over the foaling had long since passed – a healthy filly had been brought into the world without complication.  Anxiety about her upcoming presentation hadn’t even had time to enter her mind: but with the sharp edge of her father's choice in rustic desk cutting into her skin, being in the moment got a little more difficult.

If push had come to shove, she could have dealt with it (Prim had been in much less comfortable circumstances), but when Grigory pulled back too – muttering in what she could only assume was Russian (a fresh flush on her cheeks: she liked the way his voice rumbled), she turned her eyes upward to search his.  Sure, not the most comfortable of things, but had she done something wrong?  Had she caught the back of his neck with her nails?  Had she kicked him?  The look on his face didn’t suggest he was hurt (not in the least), but Prim kept searching for a clue as to what was wrong, outside of the fact he had pulled back (obviously the most glaringly wrong thing about this situation). 

“Keep going?”

Prim blinked, breathing hard and staring into his dark eyes.  Every little movement of his hands made her practically jump out of her seat and he wanted to ask about continuing?!  While she couldn’t really find words, Prim did the first thing that came to her mind: vigorously nod.  It wasn’t even a question, really, and Prim shifted, uncrossing her ankles now and edged her bottom toward the edge of the desk. 

“Keep going,” she finally confirmed in a breathy, but very serious voice, sitting up taller.  Prim pressed her ribcage into his hand as she leaned forward and used her other hand to tug him down again into a firm hard kiss – and this time without her knees in the way – and suddenly very seriously attempting to get rid of her jacket as well, rolling her shoulders and chucking it behind her.  She heard something fall from the desk, but rather than checking, Prim used her energy to clumsily tug at the bottom of his shirt while still attempting to maintain this very intense make out session.   (It would put anything Hogwarts!Prim did to shame).