tell the wolves I'm home
The guileless look directed at him should’ve made him flush; instead, he rolled his eyes, catching along the fringes of their humor, even amidst the heady glow of longing and yearning and desire; the core of them, no matter which element they threaten to entangle. Beyond that though, he waited, taking in the hiccup and hitch in her breath, the wanton lush already beginning to build, the fingers tightening around his own bare waist.
For the boldness, for the designs, for the desires to unfurl in their wanted decrees; he muffled another laugh, letting it build and billow across her skin in echoes of adoration. “I will see what I can do,” came along touches of beard below her nape as he began to travel and traverse, another emboldened promise pressed behind his teeth. “No rules for you though,” an open invitation – to touch and linger and scale and take, his own ravenous and torturous artistry could thrive even with her impatience.
His fingers were purposefully tormenting; no longer idle, maneuvering and hovering along the inside of her thighs, but never directly to the core – along soft skin, rushes of crimson, tracing and sketching, his thoughts a blend of craving ministrations – wanting to hear, wanting to chase, wanting to revel in her undulating hymns or frustration; a swift and sweet vengeance. His mouth could keep her occupied too, slinking downwards, from exposed nape and pulse points, and down her chest, lips encircling her left nipple.
For the boldness, for the designs, for the desires to unfurl in their wanted decrees; he muffled another laugh, letting it build and billow across her skin in echoes of adoration. “I will see what I can do,” came along touches of beard below her nape as he began to travel and traverse, another emboldened promise pressed behind his teeth. “No rules for you though,” an open invitation – to touch and linger and scale and take, his own ravenous and torturous artistry could thrive even with her impatience.
His fingers were purposefully tormenting; no longer idle, maneuvering and hovering along the inside of her thighs, but never directly to the core – along soft skin, rushes of crimson, tracing and sketching, his thoughts a blend of craving ministrations – wanting to hear, wanting to chase, wanting to revel in her undulating hymns or frustration; a swift and sweet vengeance. His mouth could keep her occupied too, slinking downwards, from exposed nape and pulse points, and down her chest, lips encircling her left nipple.
the ressurected sword
