COLT
Usually, I ain't the type to stay up all damn night
Thinkin' 'bout someone else
It's hard to be fine when your heart's on the line
And the truth is I'm goin' through hell
Thinkin' 'bout someone else
It's hard to be fine when your heart's on the line
And the truth is I'm goin' through hell
In moments like this, he can have every part of her. Something about the heat of it seals up the cracks, holds them and the sharper pieces that've broken off together, and she feels whole enough again to belong to him. If she can't trust herself, she can at least trust him—with plenty, but especially with this.
The splay of his hands, holding her, taking her, releasing her—it makes each kiss more wild, as though his touch isn't feeding her but showing her just how starved she is. Her chest presses against him, nipples rising at the friction, as his hand bows her spine to its ascent. The tightening of his fingers in her hair, pulling just enough that her head tips back slightly with the pressure, it's an echo of the tug she's feeling grow taut in her core.
The obstruction of her shirt's removal is quick but intrusive, and when they reconnect she means to make up for lost time as her fingers trace the edges of his jaw, his throat, his chest, mouth insistent on keeping his. Her hands drop back to his belt, and it's effort to keep hold of it as he continues to pull her in, each new sink of his waistline between her thighs like flint on stone, sparking through her.
"I don't fucking care about the food," she pants, all pretense of it mattering stripped from her. She tilts away for a moment, catching breath after the sound of his need burned through all of hers. Her teeth roam intermittently against his neck as she gathers her air back, using this time to glance down at her hands, guiding them properly towards freeing him in full. She wishes she was more of a dress girl for moments like this. "I just want you, Ves," she groans, her hands claiming the prize of his arousal.
The splay of his hands, holding her, taking her, releasing her—it makes each kiss more wild, as though his touch isn't feeding her but showing her just how starved she is. Her chest presses against him, nipples rising at the friction, as his hand bows her spine to its ascent. The tightening of his fingers in her hair, pulling just enough that her head tips back slightly with the pressure, it's an echo of the tug she's feeling grow taut in her core.
The obstruction of her shirt's removal is quick but intrusive, and when they reconnect she means to make up for lost time as her fingers trace the edges of his jaw, his throat, his chest, mouth insistent on keeping his. Her hands drop back to his belt, and it's effort to keep hold of it as he continues to pull her in, each new sink of his waistline between her thighs like flint on stone, sparking through her.
"I don't fucking care about the food," she pants, all pretense of it mattering stripped from her. She tilts away for a moment, catching breath after the sound of his need burned through all of hers. Her teeth roam intermittently against his neck as she gathers her air back, using this time to glance down at her hands, guiding them properly towards freeing him in full. She wishes she was more of a dress girl for moments like this. "I just want you, Ves," she groans, her hands claiming the prize of his arousal.
I keep it dark, I keep it quiet
But then you come around and light me up
Takin' up space like a hyphen
You're on my mind and I can't fight it
But then you come around and light me up
Takin' up space like a hyphen
You're on my mind and I can't fight it
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.
