[ 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. ]
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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. )
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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. ]
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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. ]