[Hello, and it's a turn— a tilt— a press that returns fire by way of rising pressure: first drifting into the pull of Leto's crawling fingers (neck craning, back arching high as it'll go), then outright pushing his lover down across the mattress via extension of said selfsame lean— two pallid palms placed flat on either shoulder around the roughage of that moon elf's clothes, his nearest leg hitching slightly as it slips beneath Leto's thigh in trade, working him onto his back first. Hello, my darling.
Sword left part of this coaxingly slow equation so long as Leto deigns to hold it. It doesn't bother him. In fact, just the opposite is true.
Like nothing else, it flatters.]
Now....[Small hiss of suction close to skin. Small intake of breath, hot as hearthstone in his chest despite the coldness that it wears once it finally leaves his lips. He's thinking about gifted hearts; he's thinking what a gift it is to be so loved that they spit on docile habits hand-in-hand, exchanging gore like loving vows, its brief distraction only pleasantly short-lived.] why in the Realms are you asking about an old myth like that?
[(Oh, he knows why. Or at the very least he suspects he does, fascinating development that it might very well be. The lead-in was so purposefully telling he'd have to be struck dead not to have caught on.
Well—
Dead-er, anyway.
But foreplay's half the fun in everything, and there's something not to be overlooked in the novelty of hearing it straight from the achingly pretty source.)]
no subject
[Hello, and it's a turn— a tilt— a press that returns fire by way of rising pressure: first drifting into the pull of Leto's crawling fingers (neck craning, back arching high as it'll go), then outright pushing his lover down across the mattress via extension of said selfsame lean— two pallid palms placed flat on either shoulder around the roughage of that moon elf's clothes, his nearest leg hitching slightly as it slips beneath Leto's thigh in trade, working him onto his back first. Hello, my darling.
Sword left part of this coaxingly slow equation so long as Leto deigns to hold it. It doesn't bother him. In fact, just the opposite is true.
Like nothing else, it flatters.]
Now....[Small hiss of suction close to skin. Small intake of breath, hot as hearthstone in his chest despite the coldness that it wears once it finally leaves his lips. He's thinking about gifted hearts; he's thinking what a gift it is to be so loved that they spit on docile habits hand-in-hand, exchanging gore like loving vows, its brief distraction only pleasantly short-lived.] why in the Realms are you asking about an old myth like that?
[(Oh, he knows why. Or at the very least he suspects he does, fascinating development that it might very well be. The lead-in was so purposefully telling he'd have to be struck dead not to have caught on.
Well—
Dead-er, anyway.
But foreplay's half the fun in everything, and there's something not to be overlooked in the novelty of hearing it straight from the achingly pretty source.)]