Let me paint a picture for you, I'm feeling like Bob Ross
Her threat only deepens the grin already ghosting against her skin. He can feel the impatience beneath the amusement, the way her body draws taut around every little shift of his hand, and it sparks through him with devastating clarity now that there’s nowhere left for either of them to hide it. It shudders down to the tip of his cock, the shape of it ticking behind the curtain of his boxers with an answering urge. Without the material as his last restraint, he'd have buried himself in her long ago.
Who’s teasing? the thought slides back to her, warm with the current of his want that matches the march of fire in his veins. His mouth drags lower, teeth catching and pulling up her bra, making room for the slow sweep of his tongue against newly bared skin while his hand continues its deliberate work between them. Every adjustment comes quicker now, more precise, because he can feel exactly what it does to her—the sharp hitch of breath, the tightening of her thighs, the rush of it all pouring back against him through the bond like a bottomless well he's drinking from.
It’s intoxicating, being able to guide her apart like this and feel every step of it with her. That well must be spiked. The pace of it builds under his hand, never so hasty as to drive the intensity towards an overwhelming summit, but he's relentless all the same, each touch chosen with an increasing certainty that leaves him breathless beneath the weight of her reactions. I want to feel you come apart, again and again. Whether he manages to stay whole in the process is a hope he's thrown out to every deity he can still remember the names of past the sound of her own divine one.
His own hunger is one he’s no hope of trying to soften, the flood of it readily pouring down the connection to her. Fingertips curl against the border of lace and shuffle beneath it, dipping into her with a new pressure. The cup of his palm and the anchor of his thumb trap her in a persistent, rolling pleasure. His mouth exhales a hot groan against the nipple he's been attending the moment he feels the slick embrace of her, and it's all he can do to fight the rising urgency to trade his hand for something more.
Who’s teasing? the thought slides back to her, warm with the current of his want that matches the march of fire in his veins. His mouth drags lower, teeth catching and pulling up her bra, making room for the slow sweep of his tongue against newly bared skin while his hand continues its deliberate work between them. Every adjustment comes quicker now, more precise, because he can feel exactly what it does to her—the sharp hitch of breath, the tightening of her thighs, the rush of it all pouring back against him through the bond like a bottomless well he's drinking from.
It’s intoxicating, being able to guide her apart like this and feel every step of it with her. That well must be spiked. The pace of it builds under his hand, never so hasty as to drive the intensity towards an overwhelming summit, but he's relentless all the same, each touch chosen with an increasing certainty that leaves him breathless beneath the weight of her reactions. I want to feel you come apart, again and again. Whether he manages to stay whole in the process is a hope he's thrown out to every deity he can still remember the names of past the sound of her own divine one.
His own hunger is one he’s no hope of trying to soften, the flood of it readily pouring down the connection to her. Fingertips curl against the border of lace and shuffle beneath it, dipping into her with a new pressure. The cup of his palm and the anchor of his thumb trap her in a persistent, rolling pleasure. His mouth exhales a hot groan against the nipple he's been attending the moment he feels the slick embrace of her, and it's all he can do to fight the rising urgency to trade his hand for something more.
Kaisel
They don't gotta ask 'cause they know I'm him
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
