12-18-2017, 11:51 PM
They melt into one another. Deep red and pale ivory kisses chalky bark and glowing emerald. They meet in a sweet embrace and for a breathless moment there is no time. It is only the two of them — decay and rebirth — caught in a lapse of dimensions. The sun might rise or fall, the waves might tug in or pull out, the seasons may shift from spring to summer but they are caught in a blissful home where it is the two of them — decay and rebirth — standing close enough that her warmth melts any frost that lingers over his bittersweet heart.
Her mouth finds a delicate piece of his otherwise muscular body. The softest of sighs leaves his parted lips. The feeling of her against him (of her curves against his muscle, of her mouth against his skin, of her whispered lullabies in his ears) is something he has dreamt most of his sorrowful life. Even as she spent her sweat and purity on the others, he slept nestled against some weary willow tree with her in his thoughts. She is here now though, and the vengeance that might have lingered in his chest cavity is swept away by the sweetness of her tongue on his shoulder.
She finally says it (“I am yours, Trekk”) and his grim lips pull into a wild smile. The sound of her whispering tune is the melody to a song he has waited too many years to hear. It warms the very core of him until he is hot with delight, writhing with relief, prancing with victory. She gently unknots the coarseness of his locks and he bows her head to her teeth. He is enslaved by her love, but it is of his own choosing.
Suddenly her touch vanishes. He realizes his eyes had slid shut as her touch traced the curve and line of his body and for too many vicious moments he wonders — was it all just a dream? The heavy nausea of anxiety marries the bitter tang of disappointment in his mouth as his coffee eyes snap open. His gaze is cast around in desperation, the void of her disappearance biting into his bones like a frozen winter wind.
She is still here.
He heaves out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in.
She is speaking about her new magic and his coffee eyes find hers, latching onto them. He can see the fleeting worry in her gaze and he moves to still her panic with his own. He doesn’t say much, but the corners of his mouth flirt with a barely-there smile and his splashed head gives a gentle nod.
The world is normal for a moment, with spring singing gently around their bittersweet, delirious heads. It happens slowly but then all at once. Nature becomes enraged, the wind whipping at their locks and tugging at the waves that lap near their knees. Twisted, angry plants sprout from the moist banks and seem to extend skinny fingers in their direction. He can feel the pressure in the air increase, as though the weight of gravity were pressing on his back. He is hyper-aware of the inner workings of his body — the beat of his heart, the drag of his lungs, the gurgle of his blood, the crackle of his nerves — until it suddenly all stops.
Her gaze holds his and he finds he cannot look away. He is wrapped in the warm caress of her eyes. At first she decays into herself and the worry that grips him is ripe and sharp. But her eyes never leave him and he knows, in their depths, that she is okay. And then she is reborn, melting down and rising up until her eyes are the gentle, natural emerald he has missed so dearly.
She is the woman of his history, of when his heart first fell for her.
There is the deepest of aches from within his body, radiating out as though he has been hit by something much larger than himself. He hadn’t realized how much he had craved for her natural state (for the soft supple of her skin, for the constellations of freckles that span her cheeks, for the silky sweetness of her hair) until she is suddenly before him. He loves every inch of her as his spring goddess, but he cannot deny he has missed her as he first loved her.
Her lips find him again and he delights in her. The gentleness of her curves against his muscle is enough alone to send sinful groans from the depths of his chest, rumbling his appreciation. Every inch of her cloaks every inch of him until he is drowning in her (in the perfume of her sweat and arousal, in the suppleness of her rosiness, in the delicate yet fiery touch of her mouth to him). He never wants to come up for air.
By the time her mouth touches the most intimate part of him, he is already stiff with desire. The warmth of her tongue causes his lips to part and his neck to crane backward. He is blissfully unaware of time. Every nerve is afire and his blood pumps faster than it has in a long time. She whispers against his jaw, words that ignite the beginning of a thread that will lead to her fireworks.
She is standing flush against the broad of his chest, fingers tracing the lines of his muscles. The swell of her breasts sing to the most deeply-rooted parts of him that make him a man and he is lost in the chaotic, euphoric aura of her body. His calloused hands cradle the curve of her hips but as she whispers those three little words (“Make me yours” — a much dirtier, more sinful version to the three little words we all expect to hear) his fingers dip lower.
She is practically begging him and he is all too ready to indulge her. His hand skims the plane of her thigh before sweeping her up, cradling her against his chest before tossing her down. A smile curls his mouth — lustful and greedy — before he pushes her legs aside. She is soft and warm, perfectly ripe for him to enjoy. And he does so deliciously, prodding at her intimately until she is shivering beneath his hand and mouth.
He stops just before she comes undone by his doing. He does not wipe his perfect lips, but slides his sculpted body along her curves until he is sloppily kissing her neck. He whispers her name there, in the slope where her shoulder marries her neck. “Noori.” It is soft at first, but with each lingering, sucking kiss there is an increasing intensity. “Noori. Noori. Noori.”
And just when she might unveil herself from beneath him, he stops again. There is a devilish smirk now, a hint of victory in his eyes. “Payback for all those years of hell,” he crows. And then he positions himself, perfectly aligned with her perfect body. But he waits. His coffee eyes lock with her emerald ones. “Tell me, my dear. What do you want?”
(This counts as smut but I give no hecks. Also anyone who cares that sex is in human form can drive to my house and suck my ass — PS love you all)
Her mouth finds a delicate piece of his otherwise muscular body. The softest of sighs leaves his parted lips. The feeling of her against him (of her curves against his muscle, of her mouth against his skin, of her whispered lullabies in his ears) is something he has dreamt most of his sorrowful life. Even as she spent her sweat and purity on the others, he slept nestled against some weary willow tree with her in his thoughts. She is here now though, and the vengeance that might have lingered in his chest cavity is swept away by the sweetness of her tongue on his shoulder.
She finally says it (“I am yours, Trekk”) and his grim lips pull into a wild smile. The sound of her whispering tune is the melody to a song he has waited too many years to hear. It warms the very core of him until he is hot with delight, writhing with relief, prancing with victory. She gently unknots the coarseness of his locks and he bows her head to her teeth. He is enslaved by her love, but it is of his own choosing.
Suddenly her touch vanishes. He realizes his eyes had slid shut as her touch traced the curve and line of his body and for too many vicious moments he wonders — was it all just a dream? The heavy nausea of anxiety marries the bitter tang of disappointment in his mouth as his coffee eyes snap open. His gaze is cast around in desperation, the void of her disappearance biting into his bones like a frozen winter wind.
She is still here.
He heaves out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in.
She is speaking about her new magic and his coffee eyes find hers, latching onto them. He can see the fleeting worry in her gaze and he moves to still her panic with his own. He doesn’t say much, but the corners of his mouth flirt with a barely-there smile and his splashed head gives a gentle nod.
The world is normal for a moment, with spring singing gently around their bittersweet, delirious heads. It happens slowly but then all at once. Nature becomes enraged, the wind whipping at their locks and tugging at the waves that lap near their knees. Twisted, angry plants sprout from the moist banks and seem to extend skinny fingers in their direction. He can feel the pressure in the air increase, as though the weight of gravity were pressing on his back. He is hyper-aware of the inner workings of his body — the beat of his heart, the drag of his lungs, the gurgle of his blood, the crackle of his nerves — until it suddenly all stops.
Her gaze holds his and he finds he cannot look away. He is wrapped in the warm caress of her eyes. At first she decays into herself and the worry that grips him is ripe and sharp. But her eyes never leave him and he knows, in their depths, that she is okay. And then she is reborn, melting down and rising up until her eyes are the gentle, natural emerald he has missed so dearly.
She is the woman of his history, of when his heart first fell for her.
There is the deepest of aches from within his body, radiating out as though he has been hit by something much larger than himself. He hadn’t realized how much he had craved for her natural state (for the soft supple of her skin, for the constellations of freckles that span her cheeks, for the silky sweetness of her hair) until she is suddenly before him. He loves every inch of her as his spring goddess, but he cannot deny he has missed her as he first loved her.
Her lips find him again and he delights in her. The gentleness of her curves against his muscle is enough alone to send sinful groans from the depths of his chest, rumbling his appreciation. Every inch of her cloaks every inch of him until he is drowning in her (in the perfume of her sweat and arousal, in the suppleness of her rosiness, in the delicate yet fiery touch of her mouth to him). He never wants to come up for air.
By the time her mouth touches the most intimate part of him, he is already stiff with desire. The warmth of her tongue causes his lips to part and his neck to crane backward. He is blissfully unaware of time. Every nerve is afire and his blood pumps faster than it has in a long time. She whispers against his jaw, words that ignite the beginning of a thread that will lead to her fireworks.
She is standing flush against the broad of his chest, fingers tracing the lines of his muscles. The swell of her breasts sing to the most deeply-rooted parts of him that make him a man and he is lost in the chaotic, euphoric aura of her body. His calloused hands cradle the curve of her hips but as she whispers those three little words (“Make me yours” — a much dirtier, more sinful version to the three little words we all expect to hear) his fingers dip lower.
She is practically begging him and he is all too ready to indulge her. His hand skims the plane of her thigh before sweeping her up, cradling her against his chest before tossing her down. A smile curls his mouth — lustful and greedy — before he pushes her legs aside. She is soft and warm, perfectly ripe for him to enjoy. And he does so deliciously, prodding at her intimately until she is shivering beneath his hand and mouth.
He stops just before she comes undone by his doing. He does not wipe his perfect lips, but slides his sculpted body along her curves until he is sloppily kissing her neck. He whispers her name there, in the slope where her shoulder marries her neck. “Noori.” It is soft at first, but with each lingering, sucking kiss there is an increasing intensity. “Noori. Noori. Noori.”
And just when she might unveil herself from beneath him, he stops again. There is a devilish smirk now, a hint of victory in his eyes. “Payback for all those years of hell,” he crows. And then he positions himself, perfectly aligned with her perfect body. But he waits. His coffee eyes lock with her emerald ones. “Tell me, my dear. What do you want?”
(This counts as smut but I give no hecks. Also anyone who cares that sex is in human form can drive to my house and suck my ass — PS love you all)