this is sin, baby (Mance/Dalla)magisterequitumMarch 17 2012, 00:57:47 UTC
The fox daemon's fur shines in the low light, all white fur that's two or three shades brighter than the hair of his owner. He sits next to his human, black eyes unblinking, starring him down, unwavering.
Dalla's mouth curves in mockery, and her eyebrow rises in a perfect arch, her features all seeming to say: 'well, what are you going to do?'
Daring, and he has never been afraid before, though the woman before, naked and so sure, makes him feel something that could be called that.
Mance reaches out with fingers that do not shake, no they don't, and hovers, just for a moment, over the other daemon's fur. Not his, no his daemon watches from the foot of the bed, purring her approval, urging him on. It should be taboo. Would be taboo; after all, this is sin, this is what they've been taught.
But Dalla's gray eyes never leave his, and her full lips curve just so, and she's waiting, waiting, and he moves then.
Sensations hit all at once, folding one after another. The feeling of touching fur that is unfamiliar, soft and thick, white through the spaces of his tan fingers. It's a circuit that loops over and over, flooding him with electricity, feelings of her and him and them and her daemon.
His fingers grip tighter and then Dalla is pressing closer, shifting her weight into his lap, curling her hands over his shoulders, slotting her mouth over his to bite and lick her way inside. Insistent and demanding all at once. Too much and not enough, and he's reaching out for her and her daemon and his own where she's shifted on quick paws to come closer.
There's bare skin sliding where her heavy breasts push against his chest and her thighs widen so his cock sits where she wants it between her legs. Fur, short and stiff and long and silky, and everything coalesces into them.
Dalla's mouth curves in mockery, and her eyebrow rises in a perfect arch, her features all seeming to say: 'well, what are you going to do?'
Daring, and he has never been afraid before, though the woman before, naked and so sure, makes him feel something that could be called that.
Mance reaches out with fingers that do not shake, no they don't, and hovers, just for a moment, over the other daemon's fur. Not his, no his daemon watches from the foot of the bed, purring her approval, urging him on. It should be taboo. Would be taboo; after all, this is sin, this is what they've been taught.
But Dalla's gray eyes never leave his, and her full lips curve just so, and she's waiting, waiting, and he moves then.
Sensations hit all at once, folding one after another. The feeling of touching fur that is unfamiliar, soft and thick, white through the spaces of his tan fingers. It's a circuit that loops over and over, flooding him with electricity, feelings of her and him and them and her daemon.
His fingers grip tighter and then Dalla is pressing closer, shifting her weight into his lap, curling her hands over his shoulders, slotting her mouth over his to bite and lick her way inside. Insistent and demanding all at once. Too much and not enough, and he's reaching out for her and her daemon and his own where she's shifted on quick paws to come closer.
There's bare skin sliding where her heavy breasts push against his chest and her thighs widen so his cock sits where she wants it between her legs. Fur, short and stiff and long and silky, and everything coalesces into them.
Beautiful, sin is, he thinks.
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rereads a thousand times
omg
PERFECTION AS ALWAYS JORDAN
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