( the first word that comes to mind. a grim reminder of the cost of letting anyone this close, especially her.
she's being far more tender with him than he truly deserves. even he knows that. what makes it all the worst is realizing that perhaps they could have had this far sooner if not for his pride. )
a shiver rolls through her. like he's just shared with her his greatest fear, and also the thing he'd tried to serve to her on a platter. if she had ever believed he might be faking, might not really have taken the pill, those last questions fade away now. no doubts can remain in the wake of that choice.
alina closes her hand around his cock, strokes him gently. too solid to tease, but too slow to go anywhere but to ensure that he has not lost any of his firmness in their little lapse. ]
Good. [ she wets her lips. ] Now try again. Make me believe you mean it, or you'll have only my hand.
There's nothing in the world that I want more than for you to touch me.
( the admission should feel liberating. instead it feels like he's given her something he'll never be able to take back. something raw and deeply personal.
[ with the hold she has on his wrist, she brings his hand to her face. her hand slides from wrist to the back of his palm. cupping his hand there. soft.
her other hand slides to the base of his cock so she can lean in, taking just the tip of him into her mouth. a little tease. barely more than an open-mouthed kiss. brief and wet. she licks him, then. the tip, the underside along the shaft.
she takes her time as she hadn't been able to, that day. learns the smell of him. her chest tightens with a grief she can't place. ]
( he goes very still. watches her move over his body like she's mapping new territory, cautious rather than avaricious because she's gotten what she wanted from him and this is clearly enough for her.
saints, let it be enough. he already feels like every muscle and every nerve is strung tight, poised to snap. trembles with the urge to move, to do something, anything. but he can't. not yet. not until she gives him permission. )
[ she can feel a tremor in him. tension. she wants to believe it's not that he's afraid of her. he would use that word if he were, wouldn't he? she brings her hands to his thighs, glides along them with soothing, encouraging strokes. ]
Let go. Stop worrying and focus on the feeling. Do you like what I'm doing?
[ she stops speaking to take him into her mouth, deep into her throat, eyes shut with the focus necessary to do it. she's sorry to not be able to watch his reactions, but she listens anyway as she sets a rhythm, sliding her lips up and down the length of him, pressing the tip of him along the roof of her mouth with every down-stroke. she takes only as much as she can safely — half of him, barely. ]
( that's easier said than done. he can't remember, truthfully, the last time he really let himself simply be.
certainly not without the city's helpful little nudges.
he breathes out through his nose, eyes pressing shut, because he doesn't dare look at her just now, just yet. not when it's already on the verge of being too much. )
[ she lets him fill her throat. gags on him. digs her fingertips into his hips to hold him steady so she can decide on the pace, the depth.
she finds herself missing his foul mouth. the assurance with which he had coached her through this once before. these sentiments pop like bubbles. gone in an instant, unable to sink in and find purchase. she is comfortable here. satisfied. there is a chemical running through her that tells her so. and even if she were not, she would never ask him for that. especially not after what he'd done.
she pulls back. ] How does my mouth feel, Sasha? Do you like fucking your Saint's throat? Is this how you want to come?
( a tremor of pleasure rocks his body. even the dig of her nails—vicious little crescents that are sure to leave a lasting mark—isn't enough to quiet the whimper that catches in the back of his throat.
it's humiliating. pitiful. yet not nearly enough for him to end things despite that little word sitting on the tip of his tongue. )
It's, ( he must look crazed, casting about for words to describe how he feels when the evidence is throbbing against her shining, perfect mouth. ) too much.
( she's going to wring him dry regardless, he thinks. hopes. the thought that she might leave him like this is almost too much to bear. )
[ it is the opposite of that, of course. it's a denial. he is near enough to the edge, to his limit, and she cuts him off. she rises to her feet, planting hands on his shoulders, examining him like a piece of fine furniture. ]
his impatience bleeds through with every action, all restless movement as he rushes to oblige her request. although it can't take longer than a few minutes to undress her, it feels like an eternity before he is touching warm, bare skin. )
[ she can't help but laugh at his earnestness. in part because it's so uncharacteristic of the darkling, who is all patient and placid like the surface of a dark lake. even his anger runs cold instead of hot. this is neither. this is a dog eagerly lapping up what food it's given. ]
Aren't you eager. [ she places her palm on the crown of his head as he helps her first out of her heels, then pants. they make a clumsy pile on his dirty floor, so sharp and bright and out of place. ] That's enough. Go lie down.
( a brief glance toward the bedroom. 'bedroom' is being generous, but there's a mattress that's (mostly) clean and the press of the chemical swimming in his blood driving him to swallow down whatever protests he may have.
it's a short journey, at least.
propping himself up on his elbows, he tracks her like a dog waiting for a treat. )
[ she approaches him. she has seldom been so comfortable with her own nakedness. not with her memories, anyway. but alina straddles him, settles over him, takes his hands and plants them on her hips, guides them up to her chest.
but she does not take him inside of her. instead, she presses her cunt against the underside of his length, pressing the tip up towards his abdomen. she rocks her hips, showing him how slick she is already, how ready. ]
You're not going to come before me. If you get too close, if you even think about it, I'm going to stop and ride your face instead. Do you understand?
( what does it say about him that he wouldn't entirely mind that? being used. a conversation to be had later, maybe, assuming she lingers once she's done with him.
he swallows. ) I'll do my best.
( he can't give her much more than that. and he doesn't think she'd want it, anyway. not with everything that still sits between them. )
[ he's left off that little nudge of respect, and she doesn't intend to allow him to forget it. she rocks her hips as she asks, a slow shift upwards, as if she were coaxing the words out of him: sankta alina, moya soverenyi, the particulars don't matter. ]
[ when she takes him inside of her, she kisses him. it feels like stealing something he wouldn't give willingly. he had not kissed her that night at the studio. he had ruined her in every way she could imagine, yet he had not kissed her. there was nothing loving or hungry about it. only brutality. so she takes the softness now, by force.
he fills her. thick and solid, he nonetheless glides easily. though her muscles squeeze tight to try to hold him out, she is so wet from his begging that the resistance is only pleasing, not chafing. she cries a soft sound of pleasure — for him, a gift. it is lost in his mouth, her hair slung over one shoulder and pooled beside his face. her shoulders hunched as she clutches his jaw, cradling his face. needy.
( there's nothing tender in what she does to him ㅡ to not with, because his participation feels largely incidental at this point. she's using him, and it feels good to let her. natural.
his breath comes in ragged, careless pants. an arm wrapped around her waist while the other reaches up to cup her face. she hadn't denied him this, at least. not yet. )
[ and he is cold as a moonless night. she does not say so. instead, she turns her face, catches his thumb in her mouth, lets it drag along her teeth as she sets what starts as a steady rhythm.
she experiments with the angle — new to this, unpracticed. she has to sit upright to really get him against the right spot, she finds, and lift her hips for the full, slick plunge to stretch her the way she likes. it is novel, that she gets to decide these things. explore without his interference.
it is all these, and then it quickly becomes tiring as she realizes that she is not in the kind of physical shape to keep up what she likes for long. the pace grows erratic. her breath grows heavier not just with arousal, not just need, but mounting fatigue. but it feels too good to stop. she wants to keep chasing it.
she wants, she wants.
the problem with wanting— his is a dark voice in the back of her mind. she leans forward just enough to hold herself up, palm on the print she'd left on his chest. she slides up further, closes her fingers around his throat. squeezing the voice that is not his, that is only a memory of him, and of someone else besides. the man beneath her cannot be called the darkling. he is too slack-jawed and unctuous. too sheepish. too ... obedient. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
( the first word that comes to mind. a grim reminder of the cost of letting anyone this close, especially her.
she's being far more tender with him than he truly deserves. even he knows that. what makes it all the worst is realizing that perhaps they could have had this far sooner if not for his pride. )
no subject
a shiver rolls through her. like he's just shared with her his greatest fear, and also the thing he'd tried to serve to her on a platter. if she had ever believed he might be faking, might not really have taken the pill, those last questions fade away now. no doubts can remain in the wake of that choice.
alina closes her hand around his cock, strokes him gently. too solid to tease, but too slow to go anywhere but to ensure that he has not lost any of his firmness in their little lapse. ]
Good. [ she wets her lips. ] Now try again. Make me believe you mean it, or you'll have only my hand.
no subject
( the admission should feel liberating. instead it feels like he's given her something he'll never be able to take back. something raw and deeply personal.
he blows out a breath, brow furrowing. )
Please, Sankta. Grant me relief. Let me be yours.
no subject
her other hand slides to the base of his cock so she can lean in, taking just the tip of him into her mouth. a little tease. barely more than an open-mouthed kiss. brief and wet. she licks him, then. the tip, the underside along the shaft.
she takes her time as she hadn't been able to, that day. learns the smell of him. her chest tightens with a grief she can't place. ]
no subject
saints, let it be enough. he already feels like every muscle and every nerve is strung tight, poised to snap. trembles with the urge to move, to do something, anything. but he can't. not yet. not until she gives him permission. )
no subject
Let go. Stop worrying and focus on the feeling. Do you like what I'm doing?
[ she stops speaking to take him into her mouth, deep into her throat, eyes shut with the focus necessary to do it. she's sorry to not be able to watch his reactions, but she listens anyway as she sets a rhythm, sliding her lips up and down the length of him, pressing the tip of him along the roof of her mouth with every down-stroke. she takes only as much as she can safely — half of him, barely. ]
no subject
certainly not without the city's helpful little nudges.
he breathes out through his nose, eyes pressing shut, because he doesn't dare look at her just now, just yet. not when it's already on the verge of being too much. )
It's perfect. You're perfect.
no subject
she finds herself missing his foul mouth. the assurance with which he had coached her through this once before. these sentiments pop like bubbles. gone in an instant, unable to sink in and find purchase. she is comfortable here. satisfied. there is a chemical running through her that tells her so. and even if she were not, she would never ask him for that. especially not after what he'd done.
she pulls back. ] How does my mouth feel, Sasha? Do you like fucking your Saint's throat? Is this how you want to come?
no subject
it's humiliating. pitiful. yet not nearly enough for him to end things despite that little word sitting on the tip of his tongue. )
It's, ( he must look crazed, casting about for words to describe how he feels when the evidence is throbbing against her shining, perfect mouth. ) too much.
( she's going to wring him dry regardless, he thinks. hopes. the thought that she might leave him like this is almost too much to bear. )
no subject
[ it is the opposite of that, of course. it's a denial. he is near enough to the edge, to his limit, and she cuts him off. she rises to her feet, planting hands on his shoulders, examining him like a piece of fine furniture. ]
Why don't you help me with my clothes?
no subject
his impatience bleeds through with every action, all restless movement as he rushes to oblige her request. although it can't take longer than a few minutes to undress her, it feels like an eternity before he is touching warm, bare skin. )
no subject
Aren't you eager. [ she places her palm on the crown of his head as he helps her first out of her heels, then pants. they make a clumsy pile on his dirty floor, so sharp and bright and out of place. ] That's enough. Go lie down.
no subject
it's a short journey, at least.
propping himself up on his elbows, he tracks her like a dog waiting for a treat. )
no subject
[ she approaches him. she has seldom been so comfortable with her own nakedness. not with her memories, anyway. but alina straddles him, settles over him, takes his hands and plants them on her hips, guides them up to her chest.
but she does not take him inside of her. instead, she presses her cunt against the underside of his length, pressing the tip up towards his abdomen. she rocks her hips, showing him how slick she is already, how ready. ]
You're not going to come before me. If you get too close, if you even think about it, I'm going to stop and ride your face instead. Do you understand?
no subject
he swallows. ) I'll do my best.
( he can't give her much more than that. and he doesn't think she'd want it, anyway. not with everything that still sits between them. )
no subject
[ he's left off that little nudge of respect, and she doesn't intend to allow him to forget it. she rocks her hips as she asks, a slow shift upwards, as if she were coaxing the words out of him: sankta alina, moya soverenyi, the particulars don't matter. ]
no subject
( the shape of it feels more natural in his mouth. she is more than ravka, than the monarchy.
she is blazing sunlight made more lovely for its scorching fury. )
no subject
he fills her. thick and solid, he nonetheless glides easily. though her muscles squeeze tight to try to hold him out, she is so wet from his begging that the resistance is only pleasing, not chafing. she cries a soft sound of pleasure — for him, a gift. it is lost in his mouth, her hair slung over one shoulder and pooled beside his face. her shoulders hunched as she clutches his jaw, cradling his face. needy.
and then she begins to move. ]
no subject
his breath comes in ragged, careless pants. an arm wrapped around her waist while the other reaches up to cup her face. she hadn't denied him this, at least. not yet. )
You taste like sunlight.
no subject
she experiments with the angle — new to this, unpracticed. she has to sit upright to really get him against the right spot, she finds, and lift her hips for the full, slick plunge to stretch her the way she likes. it is novel, that she gets to decide these things. explore without his interference.
it is all these, and then it quickly becomes tiring as she realizes that she is not in the kind of physical shape to keep up what she likes for long. the pace grows erratic. her breath grows heavier not just with arousal, not just need, but mounting fatigue. but it feels too good to stop. she wants to keep chasing it.
she wants, she wants.
the problem with wanting— his is a dark voice in the back of her mind. she leans forward just enough to hold herself up, palm on the print she'd left on his chest. she slides up further, closes her fingers around his throat. squeezing the voice that is not his, that is only a memory of him, and of someone else besides. the man beneath her cannot be called the darkling. he is too slack-jawed and unctuous. too sheepish. too ... obedient. ]