[ there is a mess between her legs. of him, of her. his thumb holds aside her soaked panties so he can get at her cunt through the thick hair, sticky and matted.
it doesn't take long to feel good. she is already swollen and sensitive, aching for contact. the mere tug of his thumbs against her outer labia makes her breath short. but when his mouth touches her? she sighs and arches. it's almost too much, the sensitivity. when his lips, softer by far than her fingertips, brush over the bundle of nerves that she is plenty familiar with, she twitches, grabs his hair. ]
Inside. [ she growls. she wants to be full. it is too much to suffer more than that. too soft. ]
[ the light pressure makes her toes curl, her head spin. her grip on his hair tightens, and her legs curl to hold him there even as she squirms to get away, overwhelmed by the touch. ]
Bastard. [ it's too much. certainly too much. overwhelming to focus only on this, to be clenching around nothing. she croons, head turning towards the mattress. ] More than your tongue.
[ her heel drags down his shoulder blade, as if trying to kick him without pushing him away. ]
( right, well. more of that obviously. this is one of those wonderfully rare moments where everything works in symphony — the analytical brain taking in the feedback, categorizing it and adapting, while his hindbrain is one long possessive purr.
he did this.
the room is quiet except for her gasps and the occassional rustle of the bedsheets. his hands are banded around her hips, tongue curled around clit, and even the pain of being an ambitious bastard is worth it for how she shudders and writhes underneath him. he could, he thinks, drag this on for a long, long time. )
[ it's too much. brutally so. in truth, her want for something to fill her is just as much a want for distraction as anything else. the desire to draw attention off the punishing stimulation that makes her buck and squirm. but for all her thrashing and all his weakness, she can't seem to dislodge him.
and even if it feels like it comes from the end of a knife's point, there is a satisfaction in it, one that winds tighter and tighter inside of her. every breath is sharp and short, violently seizing her chest and shoulders because she can't stop the jerky, needy movements that react to every electric jolt his touch sends through her.
it would be a mistake to call her climax enjoyable. certainly she tips over some precarious edge. certainly her muscles clench, a tautness that runs down her calves and digs her heels into his shoulder blades. certainly there is a surge of slick fluid in her veins and between her thighs and the thrashing grows more. but it is like being dragged behind a horse. it scrapes and burns and leaves her with aches. ]
( he feels it all: how ready, how desperate. it's so different from the breeding center, with its almost perfunctory escalation. there, the pleasure had been secondary—pleasant, useful but not really the point of the thing.
mavis' breath has gone hot and short, her body pulling taut. then the pleasure crescendos. crashes.
and then she's collapsing like her strings have been cut. boneless, chest heaving.
he gets himself up, the mattress dipping again as he settles above her.
even in this strange twilight, he can see her pupils blown wide: dark and liquid. she watches him, unflinching. )
More of that. ( lowering himself down to kiss her, to let her taste herself on his tongue.
[ she is pliable under his touch as she recovers. her mouth opens easily to him, and she doesn't flinch away from the wetness gathered in his beard or the familiar almost sour musk of her own arousal.
her own climax. wrung forcefully from her. everything he does is brutal, invasive, even this. his tongue is thick in her mouth, and she gathers herself to bite down, then bite down onto his lip as well.
but her arms wrap around him, drawing him down to her. yes, more. it's not the kind of brutality she shies from. not the kind to shirk. ]
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no subject
it doesn't take long to feel good. she is already swollen and sensitive, aching for contact. the mere tug of his thumbs against her outer labia makes her breath short. but when his mouth touches her? she sighs and arches. it's almost too much, the sensitivity. when his lips, softer by far than her fingertips, brush over the bundle of nerves that she is plenty familiar with, she twitches, grabs his hair. ]
Inside. [ she growls. she wants to be full. it is too much to suffer more than that. too soft. ]
no subject
there's pain, a flood of adrenaline and he moans against her.
but he gets the message. shifts again, tries something new. swipes his tongue inside her and, then, inspired, decides to suck. )
no subject
Bastard. [ it's too much. certainly too much. overwhelming to focus only on this, to be clenching around nothing. she croons, head turning towards the mattress. ] More than your tongue.
[ her heel drags down his shoulder blade, as if trying to kick him without pushing him away. ]
no subject
he did this.
the room is quiet except for her gasps and the occassional rustle of the bedsheets. his hands are banded around her hips, tongue curled around clit, and even the pain of being an ambitious bastard is worth it for how she shudders and writhes underneath him. he could, he thinks, drag this on for a long, long time. )
no subject
and even if it feels like it comes from the end of a knife's point, there is a satisfaction in it, one that winds tighter and tighter inside of her. every breath is sharp and short, violently seizing her chest and shoulders because she can't stop the jerky, needy movements that react to every electric jolt his touch sends through her.
it would be a mistake to call her climax enjoyable. certainly she tips over some precarious edge. certainly her muscles clench, a tautness that runs down her calves and digs her heels into his shoulder blades. certainly there is a surge of slick fluid in her veins and between her thighs and the thrashing grows more. but it is like being dragged behind a horse. it scrapes and burns and leaves her with aches. ]
no subject
mavis' breath has gone hot and short, her body pulling taut. then the pleasure crescendos. crashes.
and then she's collapsing like her strings have been cut. boneless, chest heaving.
he gets himself up, the mattress dipping again as he settles above her.
even in this strange twilight, he can see her pupils blown wide: dark and liquid. she watches him, unflinching. )
More of that. ( lowering himself down to kiss her, to let her taste herself on his tongue.
definitely more of that. )
no subject
her own climax. wrung forcefully from her. everything he does is brutal, invasive, even this. his tongue is thick in her mouth, and she gathers herself to bite down, then bite down onto his lip as well.
but her arms wrap around him, drawing him down to her. yes, more. it's not the kind of brutality she shies from. not the kind to shirk. ]