[It's hard to know where obedience's dogged outline ends and the ambrosial kiss of liquor begins. Never mind if there's even a difference to begin with. Something that might distinguish what wild arousal has to its name in the hopes of setting itself apart from the warmer heat that smoulders now with each obeisant little bob of Leto's downturned head and diligently upturned stare. Not a speck of lyrium in sight to speak of, and yet he glows through all that work. Looks the part of a kittenish soubrette regardless.
Little more than a pair of wet lips and hollowed cheeks audibly vying for attention from the worst aspects of his mate, begging to be fed across his knees or raised up to be mounted: everything that lies in shadow, panting with the basin of an overcrowded chest. Saddled with the tender burden of fixation and not a shred of fullness yet in sight.
....Or at least, not the way it could be.]
This from the little beast that can't stop filling up his throat. [Is all he finds his way to hissing through set jaws and clenched fangs, brushing past the tenser prickle of their jutting edges against the lining of his own soft mouth. Digging in like spurs, and it's a miracle he hasn't buckled to it like the bite of too tight tack across his sides. A flare of love too violent for its mooring; a restlessness that borders on dangerous when his knuckles cinch and his eyes run blacker than the lightless corners of that room.
Unfair, he thinks— or some part of him does, anyway, small and slipped in as an island in a vulgar sea.
Unfair, made palpable in how he locks the root of his shoulder and its accompanying grip, pulling against the grain to deepen every thrust— an urgent, urging rhythm.]
Make yourself useful, then.
[Oh, that first hardened plunge is cruel when it comes. Punishing and far from languid now, pumping back and forth across the tight stretch from a captive mouth. Once. Twice— ] Because I won't hear a word about this tomorrow when we're discovered for all your wanton mewling.
no subject
Little more than a pair of wet lips and hollowed cheeks audibly vying for attention from the worst aspects of his mate, begging to be fed across his knees or raised up to be mounted: everything that lies in shadow, panting with the basin of an overcrowded chest. Saddled with the tender burden of fixation and not a shred of fullness yet in sight.
....Or at least, not the way it could be.]
This from the little beast that can't stop filling up his throat. [Is all he finds his way to hissing through set jaws and clenched fangs, brushing past the tenser prickle of their jutting edges against the lining of his own soft mouth. Digging in like spurs, and it's a miracle he hasn't buckled to it like the bite of too tight tack across his sides. A flare of love too violent for its mooring; a restlessness that borders on dangerous when his knuckles cinch and his eyes run blacker than the lightless corners of that room.
Unfair, he thinks— or some part of him does, anyway, small and slipped in as an island in a vulgar sea.
Unfair, made palpable in how he locks the root of his shoulder and its accompanying grip, pulling against the grain to deepen every thrust— an urgent, urging rhythm.]
Make yourself useful, then.
[Oh, that first hardened plunge is cruel when it comes. Punishing and far from languid now, pumping back and forth across the tight stretch from a captive mouth. Once. Twice— ] Because I won't hear a word about this tomorrow when we're discovered for all your wanton mewling.