WESSEX
the wraith
she tied you to her kitchen chair
she broke your throne and she cut your hair
she broke your throne and she cut your hair
Gods, how to try and explain how it feels to be touched when you haven’t felt things like light stroking this in years.
It… tickles at first. In a good way. As his hand slips under her shirt, she gasp-laughs into his mouth and pulls her head to one side, throwing her head back in a wide grin. All joy and awe and amazement, she dives back into his mouth again, hungry and happy and yes - all of her previously dour mood forgotten.
Once upon a time she’d been a horny teenager, worshipping at Frey’s feet until she became too hard and too intimidating for most of her peers. Now she wonders how she ever left them and their wanton ways. One hand wraps itself in his hair, tugging lightly, while the other mimics his trail. Wessex allows herself to be pinned while she searches for the edge of his shirt and more importantly - the heat of his body.
Her fingers trace (perhaps more roughly than she intends) hard muscle and scars, finding lines she knew were there but didn’t know were there. He’ll find much of the same on her; a cut, wiry body that had always seemed on the verge of malnourishment turned half-machine. There’s no extra padding on the Wraith, nothing soft to sink in to. Even her breasts are no more than small handfuls. They suit her and her normally sexless persona - and if he doesn’t find those nipples soon, she’ll suddenly pull back and go for the bottom of her shirt, peeling it off in a not-so-smooth motion.
It… tickles at first. In a good way. As his hand slips under her shirt, she gasp-laughs into his mouth and pulls her head to one side, throwing her head back in a wide grin. All joy and awe and amazement, she dives back into his mouth again, hungry and happy and yes - all of her previously dour mood forgotten.
Once upon a time she’d been a horny teenager, worshipping at Frey’s feet until she became too hard and too intimidating for most of her peers. Now she wonders how she ever left them and their wanton ways. One hand wraps itself in his hair, tugging lightly, while the other mimics his trail. Wessex allows herself to be pinned while she searches for the edge of his shirt and more importantly - the heat of his body.
Her fingers trace (perhaps more roughly than she intends) hard muscle and scars, finding lines she knew were there but didn’t know were there. He’ll find much of the same on her; a cut, wiry body that had always seemed on the verge of malnourishment turned half-machine. There’s no extra padding on the Wraith, nothing soft to sink in to. Even her breasts are no more than small handfuls. They suit her and her normally sexless persona - and if he doesn’t find those nipples soon, she’ll suddenly pull back and go for the bottom of her shirt, peeling it off in a not-so-smooth motion.
and from your lips she drew
the hallelujah
the hallelujah
