she’s got jumper cable lips
she’s got sunset on her breath. now i inhaled just a little bit, now i’ve got no fear of death
With her advancements, they are both stroking a forest fire that had been only a flame moments ago. Pride works itself into the framework of her insides (among the pleasure and the pain and the excitement and the adrenaline-high she gets from dancing with death) and it’s a worming, delicious sensation. She’s flustering him in a way perhaps no woman has done before, pressing one tender finger against the pulse of his instinct and coaxing it further down its bloodied path.
“And I don’t think you’re harmless either,” she banters back and her words are a breathy low in the back of her throat. There are far more advanced thoughts on Wishbone’s mind than her next witty comment, like the way her spine is tingling as his mouth slides from her shoulder to her throat. She’s never felt this way before, with every inch of her body ignited in a way she can’t dare control, and it makes her feel as if she is endlessly running toward something that will make her fall to her knees before getting up and running again.
Before she realizes it, Wishbone’s body is stilled into silence under the pressure of his touch. She goes willingly, as quiet as a doe sensing danger among the forest, but a soft exhale of a moan leaves her lungs when his teeth pierce the tender flesh of her throat. To be caught like this — pinned against the wall, as it were, with his mouth bruising her neck and his tattooed hands holding her wrists from wandering — brings thick, warm tendrils of arousal to swarm her body.
His mouth is dragging away, leaving beads of dark red to form and then drip down the length of her lithe neck. She is still caught under his control, feeling a thin streak of blood dash across her cheek with the movement of his lips. When those words, raw and honest and dark, run devilishly into her ear his power loosens. And Wishbone is caught in a whirlwind of wild lust, as if she were drowning in an ocean of it.
“Oh, fuck,” she moans and her teeth reach up to grasp a dread of his brine-soaked mane. Wishbone tugs hard on it before opening her mouth to run her dull teeth along his scaled crest once more. It’s a pleasure alone to feel the muscle ripple beneath her touch. “And how could you know me so well, after just meeting me?” There’s a subtle hint of a low laugh in the tune of her words, and even though they are teasing they are also laced with something as dark and purposeful as his instinct’s intentions.
wishbone
@[Ivar]