the androgynous keeper of plushfrogs (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
crossfortune) wrote2011-09-03 06:42 pm
crossfortune) wrote2011-09-03 06:42 pm
Entry tags:
without words
Title: without words
fandom: World of Darkness (Mage: the Awakening and Changeling: the Lost)
square: begging
word count: 511
summary: Begging without words.
content notes: no standard notes apply.
London strokes your cheek. "Soon," he promises, low rumble next to your ear, as he reaches under your skirt, takes you in hand and caresses with callused, rough fingers, until you're squirming wordlessly, begging with your breathing caught in your throat, soft little choked breaths, trying to arch into his touch except that you can't, held pressed against his wall with his weight against you.
It's very oddly bold, for him, when usually he touches you like you'll break, where he forgets that he won't, he can't, shatter you, that you're both not so fragile that a single breath, a single touch, will break you and already broken and cracked and can't break any more. You like the difference, when he touches you and doesn't forget, though you feel yourself blush, brightly, as he pushes your thighs apart with a knee between them.
His slick fingers press into you, rough as you both like, relentless as he fills you with them, twists and takes even as he keeps caressing you with his other hand. The friction sends sparks through you, pleasure and warmth, and you keep trying to vainly move, encouraging him with how your hips move, how your breath keeps catching. He's taking his time, though, opening you up for him and teasing you, little by little.
You look at him and see his timeline, shimmering backwards in front of your eyes, pieces of facts and deductions falling into place because you can't seem to turn your mind off, even now, know how he spent yesterday studying or, more accurately, failing to study, thinking of you and today and you blush even brighter as you realize that.
And then London twists his fingers a particular way and your words, but not your observations or awareness of the facts, shatter in a bright, sudden spark of pleasure as you squirm and gasp quietly, barely audibly- please, please, please- as he bites down on your neck, caresses you even more, then stops, completely, stills his fingers inside you and moves his other hand away before pulling his fingers out, too, leaving you empty.
You gasp, softly, in protest, but a moment later, you can hear the sound of his zipper as he opens his pants and cloth rustling as he pulls them down, then the crinkling sound of foil and wrapper as he unwraps a condom. A moment later, he picks you up one-handed, arm underneath you, pins your back even more against the wall and pushes up your skirt with his other hand, fabric crumpled uselessly around your waist. For a moment, you blush crimson, realizing how exposed you are for him, and then it doesn't matter any more.
"Kiyoshi," he says, low and rough, his voice like two stones grinding together, and you shiver, feeling him pressed against you, hard and slick. He doesn't move for a moment, just remains still with his fingers leaving bruises on your skin, and you try to wiggle against him, though you can't move much, asking without words, without your voice. Please. Please. Please.
fandom: World of Darkness (Mage: the Awakening and Changeling: the Lost)
square: begging
word count: 511
summary: Begging without words.
content notes: no standard notes apply.
London strokes your cheek. "Soon," he promises, low rumble next to your ear, as he reaches under your skirt, takes you in hand and caresses with callused, rough fingers, until you're squirming wordlessly, begging with your breathing caught in your throat, soft little choked breaths, trying to arch into his touch except that you can't, held pressed against his wall with his weight against you.
It's very oddly bold, for him, when usually he touches you like you'll break, where he forgets that he won't, he can't, shatter you, that you're both not so fragile that a single breath, a single touch, will break you and already broken and cracked and can't break any more. You like the difference, when he touches you and doesn't forget, though you feel yourself blush, brightly, as he pushes your thighs apart with a knee between them.
His slick fingers press into you, rough as you both like, relentless as he fills you with them, twists and takes even as he keeps caressing you with his other hand. The friction sends sparks through you, pleasure and warmth, and you keep trying to vainly move, encouraging him with how your hips move, how your breath keeps catching. He's taking his time, though, opening you up for him and teasing you, little by little.
You look at him and see his timeline, shimmering backwards in front of your eyes, pieces of facts and deductions falling into place because you can't seem to turn your mind off, even now, know how he spent yesterday studying or, more accurately, failing to study, thinking of you and today and you blush even brighter as you realize that.
And then London twists his fingers a particular way and your words, but not your observations or awareness of the facts, shatter in a bright, sudden spark of pleasure as you squirm and gasp quietly, barely audibly- please, please, please- as he bites down on your neck, caresses you even more, then stops, completely, stills his fingers inside you and moves his other hand away before pulling his fingers out, too, leaving you empty.
You gasp, softly, in protest, but a moment later, you can hear the sound of his zipper as he opens his pants and cloth rustling as he pulls them down, then the crinkling sound of foil and wrapper as he unwraps a condom. A moment later, he picks you up one-handed, arm underneath you, pins your back even more against the wall and pushes up your skirt with his other hand, fabric crumpled uselessly around your waist. For a moment, you blush crimson, realizing how exposed you are for him, and then it doesn't matter any more.
"Kiyoshi," he says, low and rough, his voice like two stones grinding together, and you shiver, feeling him pressed against you, hard and slick. He doesn't move for a moment, just remains still with his fingers leaving bruises on your skin, and you try to wiggle against him, though you can't move much, asking without words, without your voice. Please. Please. Please.