He draws in breath, the scent of spice heavy and warm in his lungs. Hair tickles his skin. Obi has had kitchen duty today, that much is clear. It is always easy to tell, not only because Zen gushes about it and brings some bits and pieces over for Izana to try, but because there is a special air around Obi when he slips inside Izanas chambers, a special taste of his kisses. It is sweet, it is hot, it is Obis very own taste mixed with flavour that explodes on the taste buds. With the hands, skin rough, touches gentle, it is an experience one would never forget, never stop wanting to experience again, like a particularily delectable dessert. Too much of it and one would never be able to return to normal desserts. And this one was a dessert not replicated by anyone else, the way a hot pastry bought from a street vendor a cold winter day could not be replicated by a palace chef. It was not simply about the taste, it was about the whole experience of it, whose hands kneaded the dough or, indeed, the flesh, or the melody hummed with the movements of it. The scents one could bask in during, after, the satisfaction of a warm body and burning lips.