COLT
He takes everything from her—every trace of shame for her travel-worn state, each worry for what's to come, every fear and flicker of doubt. They fall from her like clothes peeled from too-warm skin, discarded and forgotten. He strips her down to sensation alone, nothing but the starburst of pleasure that splinters so violently through her she doesn't know whether she’s shaking from bliss or the ache of trying to hold it in. It builds, bright and sharp, pressing against the walls of her body like it’s too much, too big, too good—something that can’t possibly fit inside her and still leave her whole.
He seems inclined to test her limits as his shadows slip higher, winding up her body with silken intent. She moans beneath the sweep of them, squirming, reaching for the touch as it presses in like a seal of midnight across her skin. When it brushes too lightly over the swell of her breast, she cups a hand against it, a command for more. The response is instant, the pressure deepening as though she’s the one who wields them, and she clutches at them like lifelines, grounding herself in the weight of his magic even as her pleasure climbs higher, sharper, impossible.
His voice breaks through like something shining amid all the vantablack he's conjured, sweeping across her with a brilliance that steals her breath. Her head tips back into the sand. The edges of her vision blur, as if his shadows have slipped into her head too, smoke-soft and pulsing with heat. He unravels her expertly, mercilessly, until she's nothing but open nerve and desperate want, everything she thought she knew about satisfaction turned inside out—broken, rebuilt, and renamed by him.
"Don't stop," she begs, voice weak with how little he's spared her to function beyond the feel of him. The urging is barely needed, not the least of which for his careful attentiveness, but because he finishes her in the next breath. Her hips jolt suddenly, spine bowing as she gasps against the final collapse of all he's built. It’s fierce and staggering, drawn out by the perfected response to her every twitch, every silent need. It surges through her, electric and endless, a torrent that leaves her trembling. The chorus of surrender he works from her throat could drag the stars down with her—pull the whole night sky into his shadows and let her lose herself there completely, become something vast and dark and infinite with him.
Everything that had gone taut inside her slackens. She settles back against the sand, loose-limbed and breathless, her body slow to remember how to move, so she doesn't try. It's just him, for a while—his shadows, his name, the echo of where he’s touched her. Gradually though, pieces of the world drift back to her, reforming what existed beyond him. The sound of the surf breaking, the drag of the wind over razed skin, the tug of gravity pinning her back to reality.
He seems inclined to test her limits as his shadows slip higher, winding up her body with silken intent. She moans beneath the sweep of them, squirming, reaching for the touch as it presses in like a seal of midnight across her skin. When it brushes too lightly over the swell of her breast, she cups a hand against it, a command for more. The response is instant, the pressure deepening as though she’s the one who wields them, and she clutches at them like lifelines, grounding herself in the weight of his magic even as her pleasure climbs higher, sharper, impossible.
His voice breaks through like something shining amid all the vantablack he's conjured, sweeping across her with a brilliance that steals her breath. Her head tips back into the sand. The edges of her vision blur, as if his shadows have slipped into her head too, smoke-soft and pulsing with heat. He unravels her expertly, mercilessly, until she's nothing but open nerve and desperate want, everything she thought she knew about satisfaction turned inside out—broken, rebuilt, and renamed by him.
"Don't stop," she begs, voice weak with how little he's spared her to function beyond the feel of him. The urging is barely needed, not the least of which for his careful attentiveness, but because he finishes her in the next breath. Her hips jolt suddenly, spine bowing as she gasps against the final collapse of all he's built. It’s fierce and staggering, drawn out by the perfected response to her every twitch, every silent need. It surges through her, electric and endless, a torrent that leaves her trembling. The chorus of surrender he works from her throat could drag the stars down with her—pull the whole night sky into his shadows and let her lose herself there completely, become something vast and dark and infinite with him.
Everything that had gone taut inside her slackens. She settles back against the sand, loose-limbed and breathless, her body slow to remember how to move, so she doesn't try. It's just him, for a while—his shadows, his name, the echo of where he’s touched her. Gradually though, pieces of the world drift back to her, reforming what existed beyond him. The sound of the surf breaking, the drag of the wind over razed skin, the tug of gravity pinning her back to reality.
Baby, don't fall for me, I'll tell you right now
You're gonna hate me when we hit the ground
Think you're gonna fix me, think we're making progress
You'll be broken with me somewhere in the process
You're gonna hate me when we hit the ground
Think you're gonna fix me, think we're making progress
You'll be broken with me somewhere in the process
Received a Gilded Market wig from Remi that resembles her usual hair and is enchanted to stay on better than most wigs | has a reverse centaur tattoo on her left hand with the legs going down her pointer and middle fingers that looks like this.
