REMI
the alchemist
What good are hands
if there's nothing that they hold
if there's nothing that they hold
Though Remi's grin is a feral and monstrous thing against Ronin's skin, the palette of his emotions are nevertheless bright if not wildly reckless with need and pleasure. Not unlike the abstract but intentional shapes Remi had drawn with meticulous precision across Ronin's body earlier, now too the tirade of their mutual bliss is painted with equally measured strokes.
Straining his muscles if only so that he might feel even more of everything around him, Remi tilts his chin to his chest and transitions from the deep and decisive thrusting which had gotten them this far, to what can only be described as the frenetic and rushing movements of fucking. So, with his talons buried deep in the wood of their table and his own wood buried deep within the Huntsman, Remi chases the thud of the table legs until it matches the pounding of their combined heartbeats. Even as his fingers tighten around the base of Ronin's cock and his ears begin to ring heralding the white-out aftermath of his own orgasm, still his hips buck forward as if through sheer selfishness he might somehow pull even more pleasure down for the both of them.
Somewhere far away the fire crackles as a log shifts in the hearth, the leg of their table threatens to break with a low groan, and snow begins to build on their doorstep from where Remi hadn't quite managed to close the door. All of this happens in a world that the alchemist is only tangentially aware of, lost as he is in the salty-sweet taste of Ronin's skin on his lips, and the Huntsman's heartbeat keeping him aloft in the starbright nothingness that coats his thoughts.
Straining his muscles if only so that he might feel even more of everything around him, Remi tilts his chin to his chest and transitions from the deep and decisive thrusting which had gotten them this far, to what can only be described as the frenetic and rushing movements of fucking. So, with his talons buried deep in the wood of their table and his own wood buried deep within the Huntsman, Remi chases the thud of the table legs until it matches the pounding of their combined heartbeats. Even as his fingers tighten around the base of Ronin's cock and his ears begin to ring heralding the white-out aftermath of his own orgasm, still his hips buck forward as if through sheer selfishness he might somehow pull even more pleasure down for the both of them.
Somewhere far away the fire crackles as a log shifts in the hearth, the leg of their table threatens to break with a low groan, and snow begins to build on their doorstep from where Remi hadn't quite managed to close the door. All of this happens in a world that the alchemist is only tangentially aware of, lost as he is in the salty-sweet taste of Ronin's skin on his lips, and the Huntsman's heartbeat keeping him aloft in the starbright nothingness that coats his thoughts.
And what good are hearts
if you bury them all alone?
if you bury them all alone?
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
