03-06-2017, 12:53 PM
She has no idea of the turmoil she spurs in him, no idea of the dizzying lust her pulse presses into his tongue when she turns molten beneath him. It is a tangle of instinct she follows, a yearning from deep in her belly, an ache from deep in her heart and it tethers her to him so close that they are one in the sand at the edge of his water, a pooling of black and blue like the beginning of a beautiful bruise. He groans and the sound lights new heat in her belly, new fire beneath that oceanic blue of her trembling skin and she pushes closer still, filling in those empty places with the soft curves of her body. She isn’t sure she understands what it is she wants (beyond him at least, that much is clear, that much has always been clear), what it is she coaxes from him with such gentle teeth, but she knows it is better with her chest pressed to his, better with the heat of his mouth volcanic and ashy against her face, her neck, her throat.
It is better with him than it is without.
It is survivable.
His name on her tongue, on her lips, traced in kisses across that dark, beautiful flesh changes him and she is rewarded by a hunger that deepens, by teeth that pull and pluck and bury fire beneath her trembling skin. She does whimper now, she is sure of it, does surrender to the instincts that push her so firmly against him, that urge her lips further and deeper to uncover new hollows. They trace the bones in his shoulder and each individual rib – lift again to follow the long ridge of his spine and the smooth hollow beneath it. They drop to his elbow and the soft skin behind it, using teeth that are careful and urgent as they trace along the curve of his belly to the arch of his flank. She would have lost herself in him, but he is looking for her again, breathing hard, and she turns back to his chest, back to where that dark mouth can reach her face, her neck, the smooth of powdered blue and white.
“Stillwater.” She breathes again, a promise, a name, now branded into the curve of her pretty tongue. When he eases back she does not notice; it is too reflexive to flow against him, to fill the empty places with soft and blue and aching skin. But he does not give her time to notice either, not with his tongue, his lips, the pressure of teeth that make her arch against him. She does not notice until she has said his name one last time, until he pauses and she finally feels that water lapping at her legs, lets her eyes drop for a moment to watch it, confused and hazy, lethargic with the pleasure he has sewn into her veins. But then she is against him again, softer, deep fire, with her mouth against his shoulder and his on a spine that she rounds out for him in a wordless invitation. He moans his pleasure, a low crooning sound against her skin, and she rewards him with a similar sound, a quiet squeal muffled against his neck. Oh my god, Luster. he says, and the need in his voice is enough to quiet her against him, enough to steal her breath and her fire (if only for a moment) so that it feels different with their chests pressed together and their necks easily entwined.
She thinks she is surprised by how long they stay this way, how long they are locked in an embrace with no kisses, no wandering lips to keep them tethered; but she is still hazy with longing, with pleasure, and so she blames it on this instead. When those words spill from her lips, treacherous and uninvited and wholly true, she flushes warm and uncertain, shifts to bury her face against his neck so that he will never see the way her eyes go wide and dark, wounded by her own knife. She had not meant to tell him, had meant to spare him the burden of being loved. But if he had not realized it already then surely this moment, these kisses, this tangle of aching bodies, would have been indication enough. She is not surprised when he says nothing back, would not have asked for a similar promise, not a vow or pledge. These words were not meant to corner him. They are the echo of her lips against his cheek, his chest, his beating heart. It is enough to be pressed to him, to feel the rhythm of his pulse where it beats against her, to feel time slow and swallow them until there is nothing else left.
He shifts back to brush his lips along the base of her mane and she lifts her face to him, softening, though that longing still waits for him like an ache in the brown of those luminous eyes. Unchanged and unfading, patient despite the way she burns with it. “Stillwater.” She murmurs softly, startled by the affection that is buried in the gesture, shivering at the lightness of his touch. It is reflexive when she arches her neck beneath him, when she coaxes him further with the soft sounds she makes in the back of her throat, with lips that return urgent and aching to the curve of his dark, wonderful chest.
But something changes, a shift she cannot sense, and suddenly he is pushing against her and pulling away.
Except –
No space appears between them because suddenly he is changed, different, and skin that is both impossible and beautiful attaches her to him and they are flying backward into deeper water. He leaves her no time to react, no time to hesitate, but she is certain she wouldn’t have, certain of the trust she has placed in him. Still, her eyes go wide and dark again, startled, but there is so little to protest to about being held so tight, so deliberately, so desperately against him, and she surrenders easily. He releases her when they sink beneath the surface, disappearing in the murky dark from those luminous eyes that are not used to peering through water. She kicks out once, twice, instinctively trying to resurface, to catch her breath, to take the breath she had not thought to grab before they sank together. He must know, must wait, must watch, because as soon as her lungs are full and her chest is wide, he pulls her back under again.
It is disorienting beneath the water, confusing until there are lips pressed so deeply against hers, lips that pull her further into the dark with soft and sweet and a needing that matches the ache in her breast. She moans, a sound that is low and telling, a sound that is changed by the water, escaping in bubbles that tickle her face and disappear beneath the flowing of her mane, the silk of her forelock. She is the first to pull away, but it takes years, it takes millennia, and even then she doesn’t drift far from him, cannot drift far from him. Her heart is so tethered. She reaches across the water to touch his face, to taste the smoothness of flesh made impossible, made softer than water. He is still the same beneath it; she had memorized these ridges and hollows that first night they curled together, tracing him in kisses while she should have slept. But somehow he is different, too.
When she pulls back again, far enough to see him in entirety, to pick out those hazy smooth edges with inexperienced eyes that blur and narrow, her gaze is soft, affectionate, filled with a fire that burns away the shadows pressing in on them. In this moment, in this world of wet and dark and deep water, he feels like hers and she drowns in the fantasy. Always and forever his. “You’re beautiful.” She says in a voice distorted by water, words trapped in bubbles that escape around them, feel like fingers drawn so lovingly across her face. His face, too. Then she reaches out to him as he had to her, fitting her mouth against his and coaxing his lips apart to steal from him the breath meant to sustain him in this watery below. It is not nearly enough to last her, and even though she knows her lungs will burn soon with the deprivation, she sinks further still, drops a few feet beneath him until her hooves meet the shift of sand and mud and loose stone.
They are not so close to center of the lake that she cannot see the surface for the depths, and she is almost certain that when her lungs do burn and burst and fill her chest with aching, there will be enough time to push off and resurface, fill herself and begin again. But she is in no hurry to leave him or this weightlessness, and instead reaches out with gentle teeth to pull at his fetlock, to draw him close again. In the dark of deep-water, where light is hazy and pale, she is vibrant. What she thought was the reflection of sunlight from the surface above is instead the manifestation of her ability, those silver-white stars buried in and beneath her skin so that she glows and gleams, silver-blue and impossible. She does not mean to do it, is surprised when that glowing steel mane waves like a tangle of shadow and light in her periphery, but she finds, too, that she cannot stop it, that it must be the echo of her pleasure, of her longing, of the way he makes her burn for him.
She reaches for him again, presses new kisses to his face and his neck, explores the soft of this new skin with lips that wander further than they should, further than he should allow, but she is emboldened by his beauty. She explores him wholly, gentle and urging, with lips that are soft and molten, teeth that coax his blood into a roar again. There is nothing she leaves uncovered, nothing unexplored, and even though she is not nearly as graceful as him, she is still languid and sinuous where she presses against him, when she claims every part of him with silvered kisses. It is only when shadow begins to cloud the edges of her vision, when the lack of air feels sharp and painful in the curve of that dying chest that she turns from him reluctantly and pushes off the lake floor, kicking hard until her nose breaches the surface. For several long moments she heaves and gasps, eyes dark with something indescribable as she kicks her legs to stay afloat. But she makes no effort to return to the shore, choosing instead to wait and see where that dark face will breach, waiting instead to see if she will be pulled back into the dark with him.
It is better with him than it is without.
It is survivable.
His name on her tongue, on her lips, traced in kisses across that dark, beautiful flesh changes him and she is rewarded by a hunger that deepens, by teeth that pull and pluck and bury fire beneath her trembling skin. She does whimper now, she is sure of it, does surrender to the instincts that push her so firmly against him, that urge her lips further and deeper to uncover new hollows. They trace the bones in his shoulder and each individual rib – lift again to follow the long ridge of his spine and the smooth hollow beneath it. They drop to his elbow and the soft skin behind it, using teeth that are careful and urgent as they trace along the curve of his belly to the arch of his flank. She would have lost herself in him, but he is looking for her again, breathing hard, and she turns back to his chest, back to where that dark mouth can reach her face, her neck, the smooth of powdered blue and white.
“Stillwater.” She breathes again, a promise, a name, now branded into the curve of her pretty tongue. When he eases back she does not notice; it is too reflexive to flow against him, to fill the empty places with soft and blue and aching skin. But he does not give her time to notice either, not with his tongue, his lips, the pressure of teeth that make her arch against him. She does not notice until she has said his name one last time, until he pauses and she finally feels that water lapping at her legs, lets her eyes drop for a moment to watch it, confused and hazy, lethargic with the pleasure he has sewn into her veins. But then she is against him again, softer, deep fire, with her mouth against his shoulder and his on a spine that she rounds out for him in a wordless invitation. He moans his pleasure, a low crooning sound against her skin, and she rewards him with a similar sound, a quiet squeal muffled against his neck. Oh my god, Luster. he says, and the need in his voice is enough to quiet her against him, enough to steal her breath and her fire (if only for a moment) so that it feels different with their chests pressed together and their necks easily entwined.
She thinks she is surprised by how long they stay this way, how long they are locked in an embrace with no kisses, no wandering lips to keep them tethered; but she is still hazy with longing, with pleasure, and so she blames it on this instead. When those words spill from her lips, treacherous and uninvited and wholly true, she flushes warm and uncertain, shifts to bury her face against his neck so that he will never see the way her eyes go wide and dark, wounded by her own knife. She had not meant to tell him, had meant to spare him the burden of being loved. But if he had not realized it already then surely this moment, these kisses, this tangle of aching bodies, would have been indication enough. She is not surprised when he says nothing back, would not have asked for a similar promise, not a vow or pledge. These words were not meant to corner him. They are the echo of her lips against his cheek, his chest, his beating heart. It is enough to be pressed to him, to feel the rhythm of his pulse where it beats against her, to feel time slow and swallow them until there is nothing else left.
He shifts back to brush his lips along the base of her mane and she lifts her face to him, softening, though that longing still waits for him like an ache in the brown of those luminous eyes. Unchanged and unfading, patient despite the way she burns with it. “Stillwater.” She murmurs softly, startled by the affection that is buried in the gesture, shivering at the lightness of his touch. It is reflexive when she arches her neck beneath him, when she coaxes him further with the soft sounds she makes in the back of her throat, with lips that return urgent and aching to the curve of his dark, wonderful chest.
But something changes, a shift she cannot sense, and suddenly he is pushing against her and pulling away.
Except –
No space appears between them because suddenly he is changed, different, and skin that is both impossible and beautiful attaches her to him and they are flying backward into deeper water. He leaves her no time to react, no time to hesitate, but she is certain she wouldn’t have, certain of the trust she has placed in him. Still, her eyes go wide and dark again, startled, but there is so little to protest to about being held so tight, so deliberately, so desperately against him, and she surrenders easily. He releases her when they sink beneath the surface, disappearing in the murky dark from those luminous eyes that are not used to peering through water. She kicks out once, twice, instinctively trying to resurface, to catch her breath, to take the breath she had not thought to grab before they sank together. He must know, must wait, must watch, because as soon as her lungs are full and her chest is wide, he pulls her back under again.
It is disorienting beneath the water, confusing until there are lips pressed so deeply against hers, lips that pull her further into the dark with soft and sweet and a needing that matches the ache in her breast. She moans, a sound that is low and telling, a sound that is changed by the water, escaping in bubbles that tickle her face and disappear beneath the flowing of her mane, the silk of her forelock. She is the first to pull away, but it takes years, it takes millennia, and even then she doesn’t drift far from him, cannot drift far from him. Her heart is so tethered. She reaches across the water to touch his face, to taste the smoothness of flesh made impossible, made softer than water. He is still the same beneath it; she had memorized these ridges and hollows that first night they curled together, tracing him in kisses while she should have slept. But somehow he is different, too.
When she pulls back again, far enough to see him in entirety, to pick out those hazy smooth edges with inexperienced eyes that blur and narrow, her gaze is soft, affectionate, filled with a fire that burns away the shadows pressing in on them. In this moment, in this world of wet and dark and deep water, he feels like hers and she drowns in the fantasy. Always and forever his. “You’re beautiful.” She says in a voice distorted by water, words trapped in bubbles that escape around them, feel like fingers drawn so lovingly across her face. His face, too. Then she reaches out to him as he had to her, fitting her mouth against his and coaxing his lips apart to steal from him the breath meant to sustain him in this watery below. It is not nearly enough to last her, and even though she knows her lungs will burn soon with the deprivation, she sinks further still, drops a few feet beneath him until her hooves meet the shift of sand and mud and loose stone.
They are not so close to center of the lake that she cannot see the surface for the depths, and she is almost certain that when her lungs do burn and burst and fill her chest with aching, there will be enough time to push off and resurface, fill herself and begin again. But she is in no hurry to leave him or this weightlessness, and instead reaches out with gentle teeth to pull at his fetlock, to draw him close again. In the dark of deep-water, where light is hazy and pale, she is vibrant. What she thought was the reflection of sunlight from the surface above is instead the manifestation of her ability, those silver-white stars buried in and beneath her skin so that she glows and gleams, silver-blue and impossible. She does not mean to do it, is surprised when that glowing steel mane waves like a tangle of shadow and light in her periphery, but she finds, too, that she cannot stop it, that it must be the echo of her pleasure, of her longing, of the way he makes her burn for him.
She reaches for him again, presses new kisses to his face and his neck, explores the soft of this new skin with lips that wander further than they should, further than he should allow, but she is emboldened by his beauty. She explores him wholly, gentle and urging, with lips that are soft and molten, teeth that coax his blood into a roar again. There is nothing she leaves uncovered, nothing unexplored, and even though she is not nearly as graceful as him, she is still languid and sinuous where she presses against him, when she claims every part of him with silvered kisses. It is only when shadow begins to cloud the edges of her vision, when the lack of air feels sharp and painful in the curve of that dying chest that she turns from him reluctantly and pushes off the lake floor, kicking hard until her nose breaches the surface. For several long moments she heaves and gasps, eyes dark with something indescribable as she kicks her legs to stay afloat. But she makes no effort to return to the shore, choosing instead to wait and see where that dark face will breach, waiting instead to see if she will be pulled back into the dark with him.