I'll let the flames take me high, burn down the whole damn sky
There’s a straightforwardness to Sunjata that she has always appreciated. At least in her experiences with him thus far, she generally never has to guess what he means, his intent always clear, even when it’s been uncomfortable. He doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve exactly, but close enough that perhaps it’ss what made it all the easier to rob him of it. So when his answer comes so direct, she isn’t surprised, even as amusement warms her tone. ”No, no, sugar, I don’t need you as anything other than exactly as you are,” she reassures with a moan teasing past and crumpling the end of her words for a moment. Although she’s admittedly curious just what a poem by Sunjata might look like.
”Just didn’t expect your blindfold to be so magical. Thought maybe my tits would have sparklers or something on the end now,” she laughs faintly, giving her chest a mild shimmy as if that might spark them now. It’s only wonder at Frey’s touch, an addition she doesn’t normally bring to the bed, but such had been her need to blind him. That she’d be fine if he saw anyone but her is proof enough that she doesn’t need anything more from him than his touch, happy to be invisible tonight if it gives her a means to an end.
His response to happiness doesn’t need to run deeper than this instant. Just another reassurance that they’re fine, that they can build something for a moment to play pretend in. So she’ll take it, and doesn’t look any deeper, more than content to see what’s right in front of her, which is currently the expanse of his tattoos and scars that’d been hiding beneath his shirt. Both hands brace against his bare chest, thumb brushing over one lifted patch of repaired skin. He’s a sight of survival, all his corded muscle speaking to his capability as well as the rough edge to every gliding touch from his calloused hands. He’s been weathered by the world, and that carries its own sort of appreciation in her.
”That so?” she wonders, grip tightening as she leans into the press of his lips against her throat, a low hum responding to the touch. ”Is that because you’re always doing the blindfolding, or because it’s not as advanced as you prefer?” The demigod of sex, she imagines, has explored quite wilder approaches to sensory deprivation than a blindfold, among whatever other tools and tricks he has.
Loath to leave the crook of his hips, hers still rolling there, chasing the spark of friction that rises up like a bloom with every collision against him, she nonetheless acquiesces to the urging of his hands. Leaning onto his chest more and into whatever support from him she can find, she awkwardly shimmies out of her shorts, the Longheat air pressing in on her bare ass like its own bit of cloth. Another laugh rises at his comment, and though she wasn’t wondering, because it’s rather a requirement tonight, she’s glad to hear it just the same. ”And what would make you love it instead?” she coaxes, words dipped in enough want from the continued attention of his hands and mouth that they come out husky.
One hand rises to his ear, elbow propping up on his shoulder, allowing her fingers to curl in against his hair and lightly trace his earlobe. She keeps her balance there, and her other hand drifts from his chest, purposefully rolling and squeezing over one of his nipples, before dropping to his pants. The heel of her palm rubs against him first, testing firmness like a meal she’s cooking, before working to undo his button and zipper.
”Just didn’t expect your blindfold to be so magical. Thought maybe my tits would have sparklers or something on the end now,” she laughs faintly, giving her chest a mild shimmy as if that might spark them now. It’s only wonder at Frey’s touch, an addition she doesn’t normally bring to the bed, but such had been her need to blind him. That she’d be fine if he saw anyone but her is proof enough that she doesn’t need anything more from him than his touch, happy to be invisible tonight if it gives her a means to an end.
His response to happiness doesn’t need to run deeper than this instant. Just another reassurance that they’re fine, that they can build something for a moment to play pretend in. So she’ll take it, and doesn’t look any deeper, more than content to see what’s right in front of her, which is currently the expanse of his tattoos and scars that’d been hiding beneath his shirt. Both hands brace against his bare chest, thumb brushing over one lifted patch of repaired skin. He’s a sight of survival, all his corded muscle speaking to his capability as well as the rough edge to every gliding touch from his calloused hands. He’s been weathered by the world, and that carries its own sort of appreciation in her.
”That so?” she wonders, grip tightening as she leans into the press of his lips against her throat, a low hum responding to the touch. ”Is that because you’re always doing the blindfolding, or because it’s not as advanced as you prefer?” The demigod of sex, she imagines, has explored quite wilder approaches to sensory deprivation than a blindfold, among whatever other tools and tricks he has.
Loath to leave the crook of his hips, hers still rolling there, chasing the spark of friction that rises up like a bloom with every collision against him, she nonetheless acquiesces to the urging of his hands. Leaning onto his chest more and into whatever support from him she can find, she awkwardly shimmies out of her shorts, the Longheat air pressing in on her bare ass like its own bit of cloth. Another laugh rises at his comment, and though she wasn’t wondering, because it’s rather a requirement tonight, she’s glad to hear it just the same. ”And what would make you love it instead?” she coaxes, words dipped in enough want from the continued attention of his hands and mouth that they come out husky.
One hand rises to his ear, elbow propping up on his shoulder, allowing her fingers to curl in against his hair and lightly trace his earlobe. She keeps her balance there, and her other hand drifts from his chest, purposefully rolling and squeezing over one of his nipples, before dropping to his pants. The heel of her palm rubs against him first, testing firmness like a meal she’s cooking, before working to undo his button and zipper.
Colt
I spent the night on the ceiling, drank the whole weight of my weakness
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.
