[ it's inevitable that the first graze of his tongue should be fire to gunpowder, an ignition that prompts a cataclysmic reaction, after she's starved her body of affection for so long. of their own accord, her thighs snap tighter like the steel mouth of a metal trap; her fingers coil and pull so tightly it should sting his scalp. and the whine that wrings itself from her throat — it makes her fondness for privacy weep, internally, for how high and thin it pitches, in an otherwise quiet forest. all of her nerve-endings feel at turmoil, all of her muscles wound to a tight point, and yet ...
she finds this — this closeness, this new inability to hide parts of herself away — to be the missing element from their last little act of intimacy. clothed tent walls had still kept them shrouded, still kept her safely disconnected, still kept her lonely and yearning for something beyond her reach. she finds it, now, as her fingers scramble across her skin — leaving thin, temporary white lines in her nail's wake — to cling to his.
smoothly, her fingers lock through his with ease, providing an anchoring point amidst stolen breath and surprising sensation. she squeezes once, twice; some delirious, shy smile graces her mouth as her cheek plants into the grass, parting around a mesmerized, reeling (and very eloquent, very succinct), ]
Fuck.
[ karlach's lexicon might have its merits, in hindsight. all other words fail to accurately describe the forcible way she has to shakily pry her legs from mashing his ears against his skull, or the seeking hitches in her hips toward his sinful mouth. it takes effort to fall back on old habits to pin them back to the ground, to try not to squirm so pitifully, to keep still for his sake — a task immediately failed, for all of her talk of self-discipline.
(perhaps, then, that the accomplishment is not overtaking him to see to her own needs; to learn to allow another to take care of her, tempted as she is by her natural urge for control, for self-reliance. some habits still need to be unlearned. the muscles in her abdomen flex, clench, with the effort of holding back.)
she presses the tips of her fingers to her mouth, watching him through heavy eyelids. a thousand words of praise bloom, the pleasure he's gifted her only fueling her need to provide it in turn, only — they're all inadequate. two centuries have likely reassured him already that he's unfairly good at this, and his own preening ego knows he is — as she's noticed, with a pang in her chest — unbearably pretty, the way marble statues are.
all truthful words, yes, but ones that her fumbling for something better. something he isn't so certain in. and so: ]
Perfect, [ she exhales, a pleasure-drunk, wonderstruck whisper. ] You take such good care of me.
no subject
she finds this — this closeness, this new inability to hide parts of herself away — to be the missing element from their last little act of intimacy. clothed tent walls had still kept them shrouded, still kept her safely disconnected, still kept her lonely and yearning for something beyond her reach. she finds it, now, as her fingers scramble across her skin — leaving thin, temporary white lines in her nail's wake — to cling to his.
smoothly, her fingers lock through his with ease, providing an anchoring point amidst stolen breath and surprising sensation. she squeezes once, twice; some delirious, shy smile graces her mouth as her cheek plants into the grass, parting around a mesmerized, reeling (and very eloquent, very succinct), ]
Fuck.
[ karlach's lexicon might have its merits, in hindsight. all other words fail to accurately describe the forcible way she has to shakily pry her legs from mashing his ears against his skull, or the seeking hitches in her hips toward his sinful mouth. it takes effort to fall back on old habits to pin them back to the ground, to try not to squirm so pitifully, to keep still for his sake — a task immediately failed, for all of her talk of self-discipline.
(perhaps, then, that the accomplishment is not overtaking him to see to her own needs; to learn to allow another to take care of her, tempted as she is by her natural urge for control, for self-reliance. some habits still need to be unlearned. the muscles in her abdomen flex, clench, with the effort of holding back.)
she presses the tips of her fingers to her mouth, watching him through heavy eyelids. a thousand words of praise bloom, the pleasure he's gifted her only fueling her need to provide it in turn, only — they're all inadequate. two centuries have likely reassured him already that he's unfairly good at this, and his own preening ego knows he is — as she's noticed, with a pang in her chest — unbearably pretty, the way marble statues are.
all truthful words, yes, but ones that her fumbling for something better. something he isn't so certain in. and so: ]
Perfect, [ she exhales, a pleasure-drunk, wonderstruck whisper. ] You take such good care of me.