[If she had anything but the crude mimicry of cool breath to give in those moments bridging his approach to the soft, circling slide of his thumb across her cheek, it'd be gone by the time her jaw crooks higher in his hold. This exact fantasy just a stray concept until now, when the present views and sensations twist together to drive reality home with all the potency of a perched knife in steady hands. Stolen by it all.
He's tall. He's flustered. It strikes like flint.]
You always know just how to flatter. [Comes through in a voice she doesn't recognize. In a purr she does. Cadence overriding a hightened lilt that actually fits her characteristic delivery for once, though it doesn't make it any less of a shellburst shock each time she hears it, marveling at everything. Drinking herself in through all present disbelief; the strangest mirror, when she's had none to check herself within. Only the weightlessness in her limbs and legs. Only the heaviness across her chest, and the arresting lightness between her thighs— ] Maker's Breath.
[There it is. Just once while she still can. An acclimatizing exhale. A quickened reset. As much for his sake as her own, left hot along the high tips of her ears. The back of her slim neck, held high to meet his knuckles.]
I take it that this means you've no complaints about my choice in pursued play? [Into his touch, then, a partial press forwards onto the balls of her feet, until the sinking outline of her hood threatens to swallow his hand whole— to say nothing of the rest of that cloak, and the layered clothing underneath: she swims in stolen clothing. Hers. His. A pair of taloned gloves strung looser than a second skin around her fingertips, and she fits one set of them against his elbow. His blocking frame keeps the sun at bay, but she's careful not to let too much of herself show for the risk stray sunlight poses, ashen burn a lingering prickle at her heels. Hello, little love.
Ah— correction. Large love. Very, very large love.]
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He's tall. He's flustered. It strikes like flint.]
You always know just how to flatter. [Comes through in a voice she doesn't recognize. In a purr she does. Cadence overriding a hightened lilt that actually fits her characteristic delivery for once, though it doesn't make it any less of a shellburst shock each time she hears it, marveling at everything. Drinking herself in through all present disbelief; the strangest mirror, when she's had none to check herself within. Only the weightlessness in her limbs and legs. Only the heaviness across her chest, and the arresting lightness between her thighs— ] Maker's Breath.
[There it is. Just once while she still can. An acclimatizing exhale. A quickened reset. As much for his sake as her own, left hot along the high tips of her ears. The back of her slim neck, held high to meet his knuckles.]
I take it that this means you've no complaints about my choice in pursued play? [Into his touch, then, a partial press forwards onto the balls of her feet, until the sinking outline of her hood threatens to swallow his hand whole— to say nothing of the rest of that cloak, and the layered clothing underneath: she swims in stolen clothing. Hers. His. A pair of taloned gloves strung looser than a second skin around her fingertips, and she fits one set of them against his elbow. His blocking frame keeps the sun at bay, but she's careful not to let too much of herself show for the risk stray sunlight poses, ashen burn a lingering prickle at her heels. Hello, little love.
Ah— correction. Large love. Very, very large love.]