[Dream | Week 5, Day 6] Devotion
WARNING: NC-17
She is a goddess.
Her face is passive, heart shaped, plump pink lips that are caught under a row of teeth. She is beautiful, you think, eyes so gray that are glazed with amusement, amusement that she directs at you because you are fascinated by her. By this ethereal perfection. You think of how you want to please her, to see those pink lips curl upwards and part wide, to feel the heat of her breath against your own lips, your neck. You cannot imagine a better perfection than this, how her hair feels so soft under your finger tips.
Silk.
The locks unfurl under your touch, each braid coming lose and lying like coiling vines over slender and pale shoulders, sharp collarbones and full breasts. The loose braids, they hide the velvety tips of her nipples from your gaze, teases you, like how the the top part of her apron and uniform pools around the curve of her hips. You find that you enjoy undressing her, find that you like to watch her belly and abdomen rise and fall with every slow and measured breath she takes.
You have no desire to disturb the image before you, lying in a bed of red velvet, a stark contrast to skin so, so pale. You touch her forehead with the tips of your finger, slowly moving down over the curve of her cheekbones and down the side of her face towards the apex of her chin, all these touches that are curious, nothing but a brush that feels like butterfly wings on skin; she remains unmoving, simply breathing, releasing her lower lip with a slow hum, watching you with her forearm under her breasts the other by her side, manicured nails playing with a fold of silk, like she’s teasing the nubs of a hardened nipple, yours, you imagine it as yours, how good the burn and prickle would feel, her nails pinching, twisting, left and right, left and right ...
It makes you suck in a breath, your fingers pausing over the pulse of her neck. You do not realize how your gaze had gone to those hands, lovely, lovely slender hands that you want to feel against your stomach, rake lines on your back. Wrap around your cock, feel those fingers trace the swollen head, pinch at the slit and force all that heat to run down in clear rivulets, and this, you know would make you lose your breath, make you shudder under the hold she has on you --
You blink away and look at her face; her eyebrows are raised now, in question, in amusement, lips pressing down together in an attempt to control the mirth that glows in the depths of her eyes. How easily she seduces you, when she lies there like a magnificent doll with you bent over her like one would in a temple, knees on the ground and pools of velvet, between her legs that are parted, layers and layers of fabric acting like some sort of chastity belt between her body and your bare one.
Damn them, you think, getting in the way. Why does she wear so much? Why does she hide her body like this?
Ah, but that is the trick isn’t it?
It’s what turned you on, all those hidden layers. Made you curious. Made you reach forward and grip tight.
Remember?
Her eyes glint with something, and this makes the heat in your belly swell, shooting down to your thighs where it tightens the muscle there and hardens your cock even more. That heat, it spreads like fire over your chest, ignites a spark of desire that pools red over the curve of your nose scar and darkens your eyes until they’re like black mirrors. You can see your reflection, in her own eyes that widens briefly in faint surprise as you lean over and claim her lips.
It is savage, raw, hot like an inferno how you push your tongue past those pink lips. Like you want her as yours. As if you own her. Like how man would fall before a goddess of the heavens and try to keep her as theirs, their wife, the object of their affection, carrier of their children and the future.
(You'd like that one day, don't you? To have a home with this beautiful person, to hold her in your arms and bury your nose in her neck, inhale that sweet earthy smell of spring, how it clings to her hair and skin. You would want to trace her belly, dedicate yourself to her health and desires, trace the curve that would bring you both joy. It would be nice, wouldn't it? To share your whole life with her. To live for her and everything that is connected to her.)
She breathes deeply, hand tangling in your hair while the other digs against your side, between two ribs. "
"Hmmn --" She whimpers.
And you hiss at the sing against your side, breaking the kiss, gossamer strands between your lips, sweet, like the tea and fruit you had earlier. You watch her neck flush with red, all the way up to her chicks as her tongue slowly swipes over the tiers of her lips, severing the connection of your kiss. Those lips, they curl upwards in a secret smile, the hand in your hair tightening around the roots, gripping hard. The sight of that tongue, it excites you, makes you press closer to her parted thighs, your cock brushing over the silky fabric of her petticoat and skirt.
More, her eyes demand.
More, you think, you ache. You want. You need.
The taste of her neck, her skin against your lips, it's like summer, sweet and salty. It is soft over the racing pulse, and you think of the sea and white sands while you trail tracks of red down her neck, your hands moving to hold her hips and finger the scar on her right hipbone. That one is long, so long, you love running the tip of your tongue over it, trace the line down, lower and part her wider with your tongue, kiss her like you've never kissed anyone. Her body, it attracts you, just like her passive face, how she is silent and measured, how she is so powerful and fearless. She draws you in, entrances you with just a look, a wave of her hand.
(What would you give to be with her? What would you sacrifice to just hold her and have her as yours?)
Impatience. It flares up in your stomach and makes you sink a teeth over the curve of her breast, leaving rigid red marks that only her bra and blouse would conceal. But the itch would remain, an annoying phantom memory of how your teeth rake against the soft flesh, over nubs that harden and twist between your lips. Hard and erect, pronounced, just how you like it. You press the tip of your tongue against the small slit there, pushing teasing and here --
"A-Ahh --"
-- she arches against your mouth, pushes your head against that breast, that left one, the one you like the most because this where you get to feel the badump of her heart against her ribs, feel the resonating thump under your lips. She is trembling, excited, her thighs pressing against yours and here, you can taste it in the air, her arousal. How poignant it is that you can already feel it at the back of your throat. It's like a drought that ensnares you, where a strong gust of desert wind blows over lands and dries them up, sucks the water from everything. Because it wants to be nourished, to feel the touch of rain caress the heat and quench it, relieve it.
She's so beautiful like this, how she turns her head to the side, how her cries brush against the curve of her shoulders, how her stomach rises and falls so quickly because she can't hold it in. You love the tremors that goes through you when she loses herself like this, forgets what she is and demand things off you. Like how she is pushing your head down her stomach, when you release your sucking hold on her nipple and reach up with a hand to cup her other breast, massage and roll that soft mound under your palms.
"Hmm ..."
(Does she know, what she's come to mean to you? Does she understand the weight of your kisses? Can she feel them, you wonder?)
You hum at her impatience, the sound reprimanding while you trace the ridges of her ribs, count them, map them out, memorize and follow the lines of her body - all white that you think almost tastes like the cream you like so much - to that raised skin around her right hip. You love this mark of hers, this incredibly sexy line that might have meant the end of her life once upon a time, in a fight. How many times have you told her this, whispered it against skin, called her so fucking hot that she hums and chuckles and spreads her legs wider for you? How many times have you wrapped your arms around her middle, and press fingers against that scar, with all the fabric in between and all the eyes of the world falling on the both of you? It's a secret, your love for that scar, her scars. It's her beauty, this imperfection that makes you suck in a breath feel the skin under your lips pull and her hips arch with it.
And those long legs, they part here, just as you squeeze her breast in your palm and pull back, fingers hooking under the waistline of her skirt and petticoat. You are smirking at this, amused, so, so aroused that your cock is heavy between your legs, precome catching and sticking to the ruffles of her petticoat. It's tickling, a ghosting touch of pleasure that makes goosebumps break out on your lower back. That rough caress of the edge of those ruffles, such an expensive pattern.
Her clothes, they are pulled away by your eager and very impatient fingers, almost viciously and she laughs, neck arching back like her hips that raises and thighs that press together. You move away when her legs come together, when she shows her prowess at being flexible and the heels of her mary-janes click together in the air.
"You wear too much ..." You say, as you toss the skirt, blouse, apron and petticoat all on the ground, a heap of blacks and whites and silks.
You press a hand to the back of her knee, hold a thigh with your other hand as you press lips to her calves; it's easy when she has them raised like this, like some sort of performer on stage, a perfect ninety degree angle, where she hides her face from your view.
"It's meant to be a challenge for you, Iruka ..."
(Does she have any idea of what you dream of? That dream that has her in the picture? That dream that would make you so, so happy?)
Amusement cuts through the air, between her legs that are pressed together. They part slowly, the stockings around her inner thigh wet, smudged and translucent from where her desire has soaked through that fabric. She is bare you notice, as usual; she is bare most of the time, under all that clothing, all that ruffles. Your hand on her thigh slides towards the smears on her stockings. It's warm to your touch and you know that it will be warmer on your tongue.
No. It will burn your tongue.
(She has seared herself so deep in to you, that the mark she has left, that imprint, still burns even now. Does she know this?)
You bow before her, this goddess that you want nothing more than to please, to serve, to give yourself to, and trace wet kisses down her thigh and over the elastic holding her stockings in place. You feel her quiver under your lips, her control held back by a tight bridle, and there, from the corner of your gaze, you watch her suck in a quiet breath, lips no longer pink. But red. She's been biting her lips, you realize, to keep quiet. To not beg.
You delve lower, over the curve of her moistened buds, while you trace the sides of her thighs with your hands, hold her by the hips. She is sweet under your tongue, all that molten flavor and aroma making your eyes close as you breathe over tender skin and soft hair. You love doing this to her, where sometimes you'd just push her against the nearest flat surface, get on your knees and let all that sweet flavor pool at the tip of your tongue. You are greedy with her when you worship her like this, when you push past the wet folds with your lips and kiss those velvety petals like you haven't before. Because in this little act, you can think that she's yours, when that control slips bit by bit and she willingly surrenders herself to you, because it his here that she is so, very, very human.
"Ahhh --!"
She squirms under your hold and your fingers tighten, guides her hips forward as you flick your tongue over the hardened curve of her clit, trace it slowly in circles, capture the soft flesh between your teeth and pull. You love the sounds she makes when you have her core in your mouth, when you sink lower and taste and hoard all that flavor, when you breach her with your tongue, feel her tighten against against you --
How exciting.
How impatient she is.
But you are more impatient.
"Iruk-ahh --"
You are taking your time, you are torturing yourself. Because you want nothing more than to sink in to her warm embrace, feel her hold you tight, possess you, own you as much as you own her, would want to own her.
(Do you have a right to her, you wonder sometimes. This beautiful woman who carries more scars on the inside than she does on the outside. This woman who is stronger than you, will always be stronger than you. Why would she let you be this close to her? You wonder this sometimes, and you think you know the answer. You think you see it when she presses against you while you sleep, or when she wakes up in the morning and is all lazy and slow and finds you in the kitchen, wraps warms arms around you and kiss your neck. You think maybe it's in the little things she does for you; make you your favorite tea, maybe peel you a fruit in a hot afternoon, smile. You're not entirely sure though.)
Her body rolls in a wave of impatience, the throaty whine and scratching marks against your shoulders enough to make you pull back with a soft and shuddering exhale, the wetness of her impatient lips smearing all over your chin and mouth. You watch her like this, demanding, wanting, needing - oh god, she's so beautiful like this. It's like hands pressing in the the most vulnerable parts of you, a whispering touch, a promise of something that is 'forever'. It's all there, in her eyes, how she looks at you and when you lean over her and lift her knees, pushing it towards her shoulders while she holds you close. Foreplay ends here, you forget to tease her, to play, draw it out, torture, when she looks at you like that and all that warmth chokes you, slows your movements down. Or the world slows down.
You don't know.
Because she is the only thing that matters to you. You and her. Both of your existence, in this little world that is just for the both of you.
(If that image is a dream. Or a reality. You don't know anymore. This is how blinded you are.)
Forehead to forehead, you can taste her breath like this, feel her mouth part and breathe against yours as you sink in to her hot embrace, right to the hilt. You seat yourself inside her, all that warmth and all that velvet --
"Haa --" You clench your teeth, lock your jaw and swallow the groan that tries to force its way out of your mouth.
And then you let it all go, just as her nails digs against your back and shoulders and your hips start to rock against her body. Slow at first, your cock slickening with her desire in an instant, flesh against flesh, went slap on wet slap. Your bodies, they fit like this, slick with sweat and the tension that comes with the impatience you both feel. That thirst you both yearn for each other.
You quicken your pace then slow down, watch her clench her teeth and gasp when you stop, moan and whimper wantonly when she wants you fast and hard against her, splitting her apart, rough and uncontrolled.
But you deny her this now, because you kiss her open mouth and slide forward, pushing all the way in till there's nowhere else for you go. And you watch her eyes pierce you with so many things at once, when both of you shudder and gasp in unison, when you stare at each other, drown in each other ...
(Your hopes for the future, for yourself, when you lost those who are dear to you, you wanted that warm home. That home that has open arms for either of you to return to. That home where you can sleep, laugh and cry, hold each other and fight with each other. Make love to each other. That home with a lot of windows and sliding doors, lots of jars of tea leaves and a garden and the koi pond, books and knowledge in the study, weapons in another. This home, it is big in your mind, and it will be noisy. One day, you will have children, little parts of you and little parts of her would wake you up in the morning. Jump on your stomach and cling against your waist and grin at you with missing teeth and mud and leaves smearing their cheeks. And when you look at these beautiful children, you'll see her.
Because one day, she'll be gone and you'll be left with nothing but the memory that will slowly fade from your mind. The idea of losing her, you fear it as much as you fear losing your own life. But if these harbringer of headaches and messes around the house, noise and laughter, dreams that carry the will of their predecessors, their love -- they will keep you alive. You know they will make you happy because you know that everytime you look at them, you'll see her. And that is enough for you.)
Because the words are there, in the breaths that you share between your lips and bodies. Those words that you never speak out so vocally, but whisper it when no one can hear. It's a secret between the both of you, those words that is enough to warm you both in icy winters and cold rains.
She kisses you, swallows and whimpers while you bury your face against her neck, breathe harshly against a racing pulse and flushed skin as your hips rolls and quickens. She cries out now, with the ferocity of your thrusts, this unrelenting pace that makes you both cling for each other. Makes her pull your face up and mesh both your lips together.
"Hmmnngh --"
(How much of yourself are you willing to throw aside for her? How much of your dreams and wishes are you willing to crush and silence just for her? Are you willing to live just for her? To forget yourself?)
And you're so, so close to coming undone, while you watch her come undone and sounds that might have been your name tumble off her lips like how they tumble off yours --
(Ah, what are you thinking? You already are.)
-- and it's just one more push --
--
[Iruka sits up with a sharp gasp from the study table, afternoon sun pouring in from the open window. He had fallen asleep and he's alone here. Clammy and heated and so close to a -- oh shit!
Iruka turns sharply towards the Hitomi, grabs it and forcefully chucks it out the window, that blasted thing.]
[OOC: If your character is holding the Hitomi, they'd feel all that emotional stuff there and also feel like they're so, so close to an orgasm ... then it stops. |D]
She is a goddess.
Her face is passive, heart shaped, plump pink lips that are caught under a row of teeth. She is beautiful, you think, eyes so gray that are glazed with amusement, amusement that she directs at you because you are fascinated by her. By this ethereal perfection. You think of how you want to please her, to see those pink lips curl upwards and part wide, to feel the heat of her breath against your own lips, your neck. You cannot imagine a better perfection than this, how her hair feels so soft under your finger tips.
Silk.
The locks unfurl under your touch, each braid coming lose and lying like coiling vines over slender and pale shoulders, sharp collarbones and full breasts. The loose braids, they hide the velvety tips of her nipples from your gaze, teases you, like how the the top part of her apron and uniform pools around the curve of her hips. You find that you enjoy undressing her, find that you like to watch her belly and abdomen rise and fall with every slow and measured breath she takes.
You have no desire to disturb the image before you, lying in a bed of red velvet, a stark contrast to skin so, so pale. You touch her forehead with the tips of your finger, slowly moving down over the curve of her cheekbones and down the side of her face towards the apex of her chin, all these touches that are curious, nothing but a brush that feels like butterfly wings on skin; she remains unmoving, simply breathing, releasing her lower lip with a slow hum, watching you with her forearm under her breasts the other by her side, manicured nails playing with a fold of silk, like she’s teasing the nubs of a hardened nipple, yours, you imagine it as yours, how good the burn and prickle would feel, her nails pinching, twisting, left and right, left and right ...
It makes you suck in a breath, your fingers pausing over the pulse of her neck. You do not realize how your gaze had gone to those hands, lovely, lovely slender hands that you want to feel against your stomach, rake lines on your back. Wrap around your cock, feel those fingers trace the swollen head, pinch at the slit and force all that heat to run down in clear rivulets, and this, you know would make you lose your breath, make you shudder under the hold she has on you --
You blink away and look at her face; her eyebrows are raised now, in question, in amusement, lips pressing down together in an attempt to control the mirth that glows in the depths of her eyes. How easily she seduces you, when she lies there like a magnificent doll with you bent over her like one would in a temple, knees on the ground and pools of velvet, between her legs that are parted, layers and layers of fabric acting like some sort of chastity belt between her body and your bare one.
Damn them, you think, getting in the way. Why does she wear so much? Why does she hide her body like this?
Ah, but that is the trick isn’t it?
It’s what turned you on, all those hidden layers. Made you curious. Made you reach forward and grip tight.
Remember?
Her eyes glint with something, and this makes the heat in your belly swell, shooting down to your thighs where it tightens the muscle there and hardens your cock even more. That heat, it spreads like fire over your chest, ignites a spark of desire that pools red over the curve of your nose scar and darkens your eyes until they’re like black mirrors. You can see your reflection, in her own eyes that widens briefly in faint surprise as you lean over and claim her lips.
It is savage, raw, hot like an inferno how you push your tongue past those pink lips. Like you want her as yours. As if you own her. Like how man would fall before a goddess of the heavens and try to keep her as theirs, their wife, the object of their affection, carrier of their children and the future.
(You'd like that one day, don't you? To have a home with this beautiful person, to hold her in your arms and bury your nose in her neck, inhale that sweet earthy smell of spring, how it clings to her hair and skin. You would want to trace her belly, dedicate yourself to her health and desires, trace the curve that would bring you both joy. It would be nice, wouldn't it? To share your whole life with her. To live for her and everything that is connected to her.)
She breathes deeply, hand tangling in your hair while the other digs against your side, between two ribs. "
"Hmmn --" She whimpers.
And you hiss at the sing against your side, breaking the kiss, gossamer strands between your lips, sweet, like the tea and fruit you had earlier. You watch her neck flush with red, all the way up to her chicks as her tongue slowly swipes over the tiers of her lips, severing the connection of your kiss. Those lips, they curl upwards in a secret smile, the hand in your hair tightening around the roots, gripping hard. The sight of that tongue, it excites you, makes you press closer to her parted thighs, your cock brushing over the silky fabric of her petticoat and skirt.
More, her eyes demand.
More, you think, you ache. You want. You need.
The taste of her neck, her skin against your lips, it's like summer, sweet and salty. It is soft over the racing pulse, and you think of the sea and white sands while you trail tracks of red down her neck, your hands moving to hold her hips and finger the scar on her right hipbone. That one is long, so long, you love running the tip of your tongue over it, trace the line down, lower and part her wider with your tongue, kiss her like you've never kissed anyone. Her body, it attracts you, just like her passive face, how she is silent and measured, how she is so powerful and fearless. She draws you in, entrances you with just a look, a wave of her hand.
(What would you give to be with her? What would you sacrifice to just hold her and have her as yours?)
Impatience. It flares up in your stomach and makes you sink a teeth over the curve of her breast, leaving rigid red marks that only her bra and blouse would conceal. But the itch would remain, an annoying phantom memory of how your teeth rake against the soft flesh, over nubs that harden and twist between your lips. Hard and erect, pronounced, just how you like it. You press the tip of your tongue against the small slit there, pushing teasing and here --
"A-Ahh --"
-- she arches against your mouth, pushes your head against that breast, that left one, the one you like the most because this where you get to feel the badump of her heart against her ribs, feel the resonating thump under your lips. She is trembling, excited, her thighs pressing against yours and here, you can taste it in the air, her arousal. How poignant it is that you can already feel it at the back of your throat. It's like a drought that ensnares you, where a strong gust of desert wind blows over lands and dries them up, sucks the water from everything. Because it wants to be nourished, to feel the touch of rain caress the heat and quench it, relieve it.
She's so beautiful like this, how she turns her head to the side, how her cries brush against the curve of her shoulders, how her stomach rises and falls so quickly because she can't hold it in. You love the tremors that goes through you when she loses herself like this, forgets what she is and demand things off you. Like how she is pushing your head down her stomach, when you release your sucking hold on her nipple and reach up with a hand to cup her other breast, massage and roll that soft mound under your palms.
"Hmm ..."
(Does she know, what she's come to mean to you? Does she understand the weight of your kisses? Can she feel them, you wonder?)
You hum at her impatience, the sound reprimanding while you trace the ridges of her ribs, count them, map them out, memorize and follow the lines of her body - all white that you think almost tastes like the cream you like so much - to that raised skin around her right hip. You love this mark of hers, this incredibly sexy line that might have meant the end of her life once upon a time, in a fight. How many times have you told her this, whispered it against skin, called her so fucking hot that she hums and chuckles and spreads her legs wider for you? How many times have you wrapped your arms around her middle, and press fingers against that scar, with all the fabric in between and all the eyes of the world falling on the both of you? It's a secret, your love for that scar, her scars. It's her beauty, this imperfection that makes you suck in a breath feel the skin under your lips pull and her hips arch with it.
And those long legs, they part here, just as you squeeze her breast in your palm and pull back, fingers hooking under the waistline of her skirt and petticoat. You are smirking at this, amused, so, so aroused that your cock is heavy between your legs, precome catching and sticking to the ruffles of her petticoat. It's tickling, a ghosting touch of pleasure that makes goosebumps break out on your lower back. That rough caress of the edge of those ruffles, such an expensive pattern.
Her clothes, they are pulled away by your eager and very impatient fingers, almost viciously and she laughs, neck arching back like her hips that raises and thighs that press together. You move away when her legs come together, when she shows her prowess at being flexible and the heels of her mary-janes click together in the air.
"You wear too much ..." You say, as you toss the skirt, blouse, apron and petticoat all on the ground, a heap of blacks and whites and silks.
You press a hand to the back of her knee, hold a thigh with your other hand as you press lips to her calves; it's easy when she has them raised like this, like some sort of performer on stage, a perfect ninety degree angle, where she hides her face from your view.
"It's meant to be a challenge for you, Iruka ..."
(Does she have any idea of what you dream of? That dream that has her in the picture? That dream that would make you so, so happy?)
Amusement cuts through the air, between her legs that are pressed together. They part slowly, the stockings around her inner thigh wet, smudged and translucent from where her desire has soaked through that fabric. She is bare you notice, as usual; she is bare most of the time, under all that clothing, all that ruffles. Your hand on her thigh slides towards the smears on her stockings. It's warm to your touch and you know that it will be warmer on your tongue.
No. It will burn your tongue.
(She has seared herself so deep in to you, that the mark she has left, that imprint, still burns even now. Does she know this?)
You bow before her, this goddess that you want nothing more than to please, to serve, to give yourself to, and trace wet kisses down her thigh and over the elastic holding her stockings in place. You feel her quiver under your lips, her control held back by a tight bridle, and there, from the corner of your gaze, you watch her suck in a quiet breath, lips no longer pink. But red. She's been biting her lips, you realize, to keep quiet. To not beg.
You delve lower, over the curve of her moistened buds, while you trace the sides of her thighs with your hands, hold her by the hips. She is sweet under your tongue, all that molten flavor and aroma making your eyes close as you breathe over tender skin and soft hair. You love doing this to her, where sometimes you'd just push her against the nearest flat surface, get on your knees and let all that sweet flavor pool at the tip of your tongue. You are greedy with her when you worship her like this, when you push past the wet folds with your lips and kiss those velvety petals like you haven't before. Because in this little act, you can think that she's yours, when that control slips bit by bit and she willingly surrenders herself to you, because it his here that she is so, very, very human.
"Ahhh --!"
She squirms under your hold and your fingers tighten, guides her hips forward as you flick your tongue over the hardened curve of her clit, trace it slowly in circles, capture the soft flesh between your teeth and pull. You love the sounds she makes when you have her core in your mouth, when you sink lower and taste and hoard all that flavor, when you breach her with your tongue, feel her tighten against against you --
How exciting.
How impatient she is.
But you are more impatient.
"Iruk-ahh --"
You are taking your time, you are torturing yourself. Because you want nothing more than to sink in to her warm embrace, feel her hold you tight, possess you, own you as much as you own her, would want to own her.
(Do you have a right to her, you wonder sometimes. This beautiful woman who carries more scars on the inside than she does on the outside. This woman who is stronger than you, will always be stronger than you. Why would she let you be this close to her? You wonder this sometimes, and you think you know the answer. You think you see it when she presses against you while you sleep, or when she wakes up in the morning and is all lazy and slow and finds you in the kitchen, wraps warms arms around you and kiss your neck. You think maybe it's in the little things she does for you; make you your favorite tea, maybe peel you a fruit in a hot afternoon, smile. You're not entirely sure though.)
Her body rolls in a wave of impatience, the throaty whine and scratching marks against your shoulders enough to make you pull back with a soft and shuddering exhale, the wetness of her impatient lips smearing all over your chin and mouth. You watch her like this, demanding, wanting, needing - oh god, she's so beautiful like this. It's like hands pressing in the the most vulnerable parts of you, a whispering touch, a promise of something that is 'forever'. It's all there, in her eyes, how she looks at you and when you lean over her and lift her knees, pushing it towards her shoulders while she holds you close. Foreplay ends here, you forget to tease her, to play, draw it out, torture, when she looks at you like that and all that warmth chokes you, slows your movements down. Or the world slows down.
You don't know.
Because she is the only thing that matters to you. You and her. Both of your existence, in this little world that is just for the both of you.
(If that image is a dream. Or a reality. You don't know anymore. This is how blinded you are.)
Forehead to forehead, you can taste her breath like this, feel her mouth part and breathe against yours as you sink in to her hot embrace, right to the hilt. You seat yourself inside her, all that warmth and all that velvet --
"Haa --" You clench your teeth, lock your jaw and swallow the groan that tries to force its way out of your mouth.
And then you let it all go, just as her nails digs against your back and shoulders and your hips start to rock against her body. Slow at first, your cock slickening with her desire in an instant, flesh against flesh, went slap on wet slap. Your bodies, they fit like this, slick with sweat and the tension that comes with the impatience you both feel. That thirst you both yearn for each other.
You quicken your pace then slow down, watch her clench her teeth and gasp when you stop, moan and whimper wantonly when she wants you fast and hard against her, splitting her apart, rough and uncontrolled.
But you deny her this now, because you kiss her open mouth and slide forward, pushing all the way in till there's nowhere else for you go. And you watch her eyes pierce you with so many things at once, when both of you shudder and gasp in unison, when you stare at each other, drown in each other ...
(Your hopes for the future, for yourself, when you lost those who are dear to you, you wanted that warm home. That home that has open arms for either of you to return to. That home where you can sleep, laugh and cry, hold each other and fight with each other. Make love to each other. That home with a lot of windows and sliding doors, lots of jars of tea leaves and a garden and the koi pond, books and knowledge in the study, weapons in another. This home, it is big in your mind, and it will be noisy. One day, you will have children, little parts of you and little parts of her would wake you up in the morning. Jump on your stomach and cling against your waist and grin at you with missing teeth and mud and leaves smearing their cheeks. And when you look at these beautiful children, you'll see her.
Because one day, she'll be gone and you'll be left with nothing but the memory that will slowly fade from your mind. The idea of losing her, you fear it as much as you fear losing your own life. But if these harbringer of headaches and messes around the house, noise and laughter, dreams that carry the will of their predecessors, their love -- they will keep you alive. You know they will make you happy because you know that everytime you look at them, you'll see her. And that is enough for you.)
Because the words are there, in the breaths that you share between your lips and bodies. Those words that you never speak out so vocally, but whisper it when no one can hear. It's a secret between the both of you, those words that is enough to warm you both in icy winters and cold rains.
She kisses you, swallows and whimpers while you bury your face against her neck, breathe harshly against a racing pulse and flushed skin as your hips rolls and quickens. She cries out now, with the ferocity of your thrusts, this unrelenting pace that makes you both cling for each other. Makes her pull your face up and mesh both your lips together.
"Hmmnngh --"
(How much of yourself are you willing to throw aside for her? How much of your dreams and wishes are you willing to crush and silence just for her? Are you willing to live just for her? To forget yourself?)
And you're so, so close to coming undone, while you watch her come undone and sounds that might have been your name tumble off her lips like how they tumble off yours --
(Ah, what are you thinking? You already are.)
-- and it's just one more push --
--
[Iruka sits up with a sharp gasp from the study table, afternoon sun pouring in from the open window. He had fallen asleep and he's alone here. Clammy and heated and so close to a -- oh shit!
Iruka turns sharply towards the Hitomi, grabs it and forcefully chucks it out the window, that blasted thing.]
[OOC: If your character is holding the Hitomi, they'd feel all that emotional stuff there and also feel like they're so, so close to an orgasm ... then it stops. |D]