[His eagerness is the kindling that invites fantasies of what the future might bring (whether an hour for now, or weeks, it hardly matters)— trampled by a starburst pop of dazzling synaptic fireworks that shatter the whole of her vision as she hits the wall— feeling the hardened weight of a pinning grip across her wrists in wicked contrast to the places where air seeps in across bare skin through a loose shirt. The front of its criss-cross lacing having been forced slack and open, now incapable of clinging at that severely obtuse angle to anything but the stiffened tips of her breasts. The ones that pant. That well against him when they heave, rucking lacework and clothing caught between them in the crossfire. Sharp fangs nipping at tattooed fingertips. Viperishly quick.
The back of her neck is sweltering. Pinprick trickles of sweat lapping at pale curls in unseen places, masked by that clinging hood.
(And still she thinks of him on his knees with fire in his eyes and scorching heat inside his belly. Lust slung thick and twitching between his thighs as she directs his chin this way or that with gilded heels. Honeyed words. A waiting hound, salivating and breathing through an open mouth with a hunger for his next command, thinking this might be it. Oh in the next beat, surely she'll tell him to up and use his tongue. His aching cock. His teeth. Please, Astarion.)
But it's his urge to bargain that excites. Opens up her own jaws to fit his heavy thumb into dark, damp space. Breathing on it. Suckling it. Biting, scraping—
Above them, a pair of shutters rattle violently as they're snapped open in pursuit of what counts as fresh air in cluttered streets like these. She's grinning when her eyes twitch up to meet their shadows, measuring— oh, it's high overhead. Far enough they're not likely to be noticed or shooed off.
Yet.
So when she bites down this time, she bites down hard with the blunt corners of her teeth. Tugs on it like one of those mischievous pups before breaking away, and writhing harsh across his thigh. Locking in her legs around it, though her feet can't find the floor.]
You expect me to charm and sabotage with a toy stuffed underneath slim lace? Do you imagine I'll resurrect the dead as well?
no subject
The back of her neck is sweltering. Pinprick trickles of sweat lapping at pale curls in unseen places, masked by that clinging hood.
(And still she thinks of him on his knees with fire in his eyes and scorching heat inside his belly. Lust slung thick and twitching between his thighs as she directs his chin this way or that with gilded heels. Honeyed words. A waiting hound, salivating and breathing through an open mouth with a hunger for his next command, thinking this might be it. Oh in the next beat, surely she'll tell him to up and use his tongue. His aching cock. His teeth. Please, Astarion.)
But it's his urge to bargain that excites. Opens up her own jaws to fit his heavy thumb into dark, damp space. Breathing on it. Suckling it. Biting, scraping—
Above them, a pair of shutters rattle violently as they're snapped open in pursuit of what counts as fresh air in cluttered streets like these. She's grinning when her eyes twitch up to meet their shadows, measuring— oh, it's high overhead. Far enough they're not likely to be noticed or shooed off.
Yet.
So when she bites down this time, she bites down hard with the blunt corners of her teeth. Tugs on it like one of those mischievous pups before breaking away, and writhing harsh across his thigh. Locking in her legs around it, though her feet can't find the floor.]
You expect me to charm and sabotage with a toy stuffed underneath slim lace? Do you imagine I'll resurrect the dead as well?