[ a sigh of approval, at surface level; a deeper vow, buried within, with all of the heft of a binding oath. it doesn't subscribe itsef to the same possession that lives within i belong to you, or words like mine and yours and ours, better used for objects and valuables. they know better than to stake those claims upon one another as though seizing territory, have too freshly begun to unclasp their chains to long for another fetter so soon. instead, it's a weighted choice by her hand, a single word that agrees i belong with you, the way birds flock to their own and wolves demand a pack. or, perhaps, more dramatically: the way night can't exist without day, moonlight without sunlight, lungs without air.
what a thing it is to be loved, to have a home of her own making — to decide where it is she belongs, rather than be told her place in this world. her chest burns with it, with the wrenching force of the sounds pulled from her throat, uncertain if it's the bespelled nature of his words or her overwrought senses that pushes her so quickly over the edge. (he'd been right, as it turns out, to think a word as sentimental as love could sway even the most resilient hearts.) she's still pulsing around his finger in tight, frantic waves when she tugs upon his hand, a silent come here —
— that she takes into her own hands, regardless of how quickly (or otherwise) he adheres to her demand. her legs cinch around his shoulders to flip him underneath her with relatively smooth ease, a rare show of strength without violence to drive it. (a new use of it, for her.) a pronounced pause follows, splintered only by her half-flustered little smile as it beams down at him, before she begins her descent — a panther-esque crawl that sees her land in his lap, unabashed by the damp stain her arousal marks into the front of his trousers.
what she wants to ask is is this okay, is this good? — a search for reassurance that's lost, in the hungry press of her mouth, something half-starved in the nature of her kiss. but that's the thing, about having a first taste of something forbidden; it's only awoken her greed, drawn attention to that famished ache in the pit of her chest that wants — that wants, that permits it of herself. when she pulls away, it's only by centimeters, each syllable breathed into him, ]
Again. [ a mere, intoxicated whisper of a word. old, battleworn callouses catch on his skin as she frames his face with the cup of her palms. ] Tell me again.
no subject
[ a sigh of approval, at surface level; a deeper vow, buried within, with all of the heft of a binding oath. it doesn't subscribe itsef to the same possession that lives within i belong to you, or words like mine and yours and ours, better used for objects and valuables. they know better than to stake those claims upon one another as though seizing territory, have too freshly begun to unclasp their chains to long for another fetter so soon. instead, it's a weighted choice by her hand, a single word that agrees i belong with you, the way birds flock to their own and wolves demand a pack. or, perhaps, more dramatically: the way night can't exist without day, moonlight without sunlight, lungs without air.
what a thing it is to be loved, to have a home of her own making — to decide where it is she belongs, rather than be told her place in this world. her chest burns with it, with the wrenching force of the sounds pulled from her throat, uncertain if it's the bespelled nature of his words or her overwrought senses that pushes her so quickly over the edge. (he'd been right, as it turns out, to think a word as sentimental as love could sway even the most resilient hearts.) she's still pulsing around his finger in tight, frantic waves when she tugs upon his hand, a silent come here —
— that she takes into her own hands, regardless of how quickly (or otherwise) he adheres to her demand. her legs cinch around his shoulders to flip him underneath her with relatively smooth ease, a rare show of strength without violence to drive it. (a new use of it, for her.) a pronounced pause follows, splintered only by her half-flustered little smile as it beams down at him, before she begins her descent — a panther-esque crawl that sees her land in his lap, unabashed by the damp stain her arousal marks into the front of his trousers.
what she wants to ask is is this okay, is this good? — a search for reassurance that's lost, in the hungry press of her mouth, something half-starved in the nature of her kiss. but that's the thing, about having a first taste of something forbidden; it's only awoken her greed, drawn attention to that famished ache in the pit of her chest that wants — that wants, that permits it of herself. when she pulls away, it's only by centimeters, each syllable breathed into him, ]
Again. [ a mere, intoxicated whisper of a word. old, battleworn callouses catch on his skin as she frames his face with the cup of her palms. ] Tell me again.