Used to keep it cool, used to be a fool
She's plenty alluring when she just, exists. When she tries, though, there's no hope of resisting her. Combining that with the present state of affairs, where it's equally impossible to have her, and he's found a new state of suffering. Like any good scientist that's made a discovery, he can name this finding, and rather than take the egotistical route of branding it after himself, he feels the credit truly goes to the source of inspiration. The hellscape of pain he's in right now will henceforth be known as the Flo-nogo Zone.
It's only been found in the saltwater of Torchline thus far, existing in the space where her breath, soft with heat, pours against him. That exchange wraps around words straining to beak apart into want, accentuated with touch that's too taut with restraint to fully turn wicked. A tease without reprieve, almost as tragic as the ghost of an orgasm, aborted before full term.
Loathe as he is to lose her to the tide, the brief distance between them is a mild blessing for the stiff ache that she's summoned. It's a wonder that he can still float with how rock hard he is. That she's also imagining different scenarios than this is little comfort, because like his own thoughts, it doesn't remove them from this particular setting.
Blue continues to shift around them where the surface of the water decorates them in the ocean's electric heartbeat, trailing in flashes after every shifting arm and shoulder. It competes with the orange radiance of the raft, and with this flame so small in comparison to those on the beach, the outlines of her don't stay warm and golden for long. Liquid lightning overtakes her in brilliant flashes, robbing him of breath he already thought stolen as it cuts through the dark. It lets him peek at the shape of her, a secret the night can't bear to part with for long.
Through the hunger and the misery of being hungry, she rouses a laugh at her decree, one that comes lazy and gilded in the firelight as he drifts to hold the lip of it beside her. "Now that, sounds like an excellent idea." He doesn't worry one bit about forgetting to add it to the list either, not when he can feel it practically sear into his memory. To which, his grin twists more crooked for a moment. "I am curious though," he drawls, attention slowly rising from the glow outlining her breasts to the flicker of light in her eyes. "How long have you been a masochist?" Referring, of course, to her prior comments about loving this.
It's only been found in the saltwater of Torchline thus far, existing in the space where her breath, soft with heat, pours against him. That exchange wraps around words straining to beak apart into want, accentuated with touch that's too taut with restraint to fully turn wicked. A tease without reprieve, almost as tragic as the ghost of an orgasm, aborted before full term.
Loathe as he is to lose her to the tide, the brief distance between them is a mild blessing for the stiff ache that she's summoned. It's a wonder that he can still float with how rock hard he is. That she's also imagining different scenarios than this is little comfort, because like his own thoughts, it doesn't remove them from this particular setting.
Blue continues to shift around them where the surface of the water decorates them in the ocean's electric heartbeat, trailing in flashes after every shifting arm and shoulder. It competes with the orange radiance of the raft, and with this flame so small in comparison to those on the beach, the outlines of her don't stay warm and golden for long. Liquid lightning overtakes her in brilliant flashes, robbing him of breath he already thought stolen as it cuts through the dark. It lets him peek at the shape of her, a secret the night can't bear to part with for long.
Through the hunger and the misery of being hungry, she rouses a laugh at her decree, one that comes lazy and gilded in the firelight as he drifts to hold the lip of it beside her. "Now that, sounds like an excellent idea." He doesn't worry one bit about forgetting to add it to the list either, not when he can feel it practically sear into his memory. To which, his grin twists more crooked for a moment. "I am curious though," he drawls, attention slowly rising from the glow outlining her breasts to the flicker of light in her eyes. "How long have you been a masochist?" Referring, of course, to her prior comments about loving this.
Kaisel
All about the bounce in my step
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
