It's not always like this, is the thing. For as much as it is like this, there are the mornings, like he said, leisurely, in bed, languid and sleep thick and slow, until it isn't, to the speed of the sun just starting to brighten and warm the bedroom, and bed, around them. Like it's each other, not the sun, that turns time from light to dark, that gives life and reason to wake up to the world.
And there are even rarer mornings she wakes up to Luther whispering poetry into her shoulder, the side of her neck, the dip of her spine, lips barely brushing her skin, except to etch the words of old master's on her bones like prayers. Mornings where he can get her nearly to the edge of orgasm just by the soft, feather-light trace of his fingertips over all of her skin, for an hour, for longer, even once she's trembling and whimpering, before he even considers touching her any of the places he's thrown himself like a battering ram at currently, just on the slow, steady compromise of her (im)patience turned disastrously rewarding over-sensitization of all her nerve endings.
As though somehow, every single part of her, no matter how violent and vital in the daytime, was thinner than glass, more precious than his stars.
The way this one is a testament to the fact she can't break, in two or out from his grasp. That he can willfully take everything he knows she likes best, and rip her wide open with it.
The way her hips start grinding into a quick snap that's just rising to meet his mouth, to meet the thrust that isn't happening, isn't enough when it's just the tease of his tongue slipping inside her, until it finally is something more, and he's pushing those long fingers into her. Curling them into the spots that drive her mad, even as he's working her looser and looser, against the wild, desperate fire in her already wanting it to be Luther's cock, to have him deep inside, holding on to the shattered snap of his control, too, when he's finally fucking her hard enough it's like he's forgotten entirely that he could crumple her like tissue paper, that he lets himself go, with her, lets himself dissolve into only this mad, never truly sated or sane, need and want, with her, for her, that matches and mirrors hers for him.
There are always bruises from mornings like this, and she never cares. She wants them. She wants the way his fingers dig into her bucking hips while holding her down, and the sharpness of the teeth that worry her clit along with his tongue. She craves this, too. The way she craves blood on her knuckles, on her lips, sucker-punching someone in the face even though she could just order them to stop existing before getting within fifteen feet of her. The way madness is crowding out her mouth, her throat too dry, her body a constant stretch and snap of muscles in her abdomen, up her constantly arching rib cage, of an inability of figuring out where to rest her hands longer than ten seconds, how to keep them still, how to hold on tight enough, long enough, push-pull hard enough.
In his hair, holding on like barely grippable reins, sliding down his shoulder, up his neck. The audible sound they make, nails-biting in, dragging down the couch fabric when it isn't his skin she's furrowing. Her legs trembling, shifting, thighs pressing desperately inward, hard, against the sides of his head, heels digging into his shoulder blades, the back of his ribcage. Never having to worry about how hard, ever once to have needed to worry about holding back, with his durability. All of it building, wire tight in the muscles at the small of her back, the pit of her stomach, the speeding, shaking gasps, that are the desperate plea or breathy demand of his name, getting faster, interposed with longer jags when it's starting to crest, and she forgets to remember her body needs air, needs anything but the searing roar in her head, in her blood.
Getting closer and closer as everything gets higher, hotter, tighter, desperate want blotting out everything except him, his mouth, the fingers sliding in and out of her, her own hand, slipped into her bra, pinching her nipple hard, as her whole body becomes a wreck of faster and faster movement against his face, his mouth, his fingers, chasing the sizzling, searing, burning promise right at the edge of all of it, coming so close it demands every muscle in her body obey it over anything else.
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And there are even rarer mornings she wakes up to Luther whispering poetry into her shoulder, the side of her neck, the dip of her spine, lips barely brushing her skin, except to etch the words of old master's on her bones like prayers. Mornings where he can get her nearly to the edge of orgasm just by the soft, feather-light trace of his fingertips over all of her skin, for an hour, for longer, even once she's trembling and whimpering, before he even considers touching her any of the places he's thrown himself like a battering ram at currently, just on the slow, steady compromise of her (im)patience turned disastrously rewarding over-sensitization of all her nerve endings.
As though somehow, every single part of her,
no matter how violent and vital in the daytime,
was thinner than glass, more precious than his stars.
The way this one is a testament to the fact she can't break, in two or out from his grasp.
That he can willfully take everything he knows she likes best, and rip her wide open with it.
The way her hips start grinding into a quick snap that's just rising to meet his mouth, to meet the thrust that isn't happening, isn't enough when it's just the tease of his tongue slipping inside her, until it finally is something more, and he's pushing those long fingers into her. Curling them into the spots that drive her mad, even as he's working her looser and looser, against the wild, desperate fire in her already wanting it to be Luther's cock, to have him deep inside, holding on to the shattered snap of his control, too, when he's finally fucking her hard enough it's like he's forgotten entirely that he could crumple her like tissue paper, that he lets himself go, with her, lets himself dissolve into only this mad, never truly sated or sane, need and want, with her, for her, that matches and mirrors hers for him.
There are always bruises from mornings like this, and she never cares. She wants them. She wants the way his fingers dig into her bucking hips while holding her down, and the sharpness of the teeth that worry her clit along with his tongue. She craves this, too. The way she craves blood on her knuckles, on her lips, sucker-punching someone in the face even though she could just order them to stop existing before getting within fifteen feet of her. The way madness is crowding out her mouth, her throat too dry, her body a constant stretch and snap of muscles in her abdomen, up her constantly arching rib cage, of an inability of figuring out where to rest her hands longer than ten seconds, how to keep them still, how to hold on tight enough, long enough, push-pull hard enough.
In his hair, holding on like barely grippable reins, sliding down his shoulder, up his neck. The audible sound they make, nails-biting in, dragging down the couch fabric when it isn't his skin she's furrowing. Her legs trembling, shifting, thighs pressing desperately inward, hard, against the sides of his head, heels digging into his shoulder blades, the back of his ribcage. Never having to worry about how hard, ever once to have needed to worry about holding back, with his durability. All of it building, wire tight in the muscles at the small of her back, the pit of her stomach, the speeding, shaking gasps, that are the desperate plea or breathy demand of his name, getting faster, interposed with longer jags when it's starting to crest, and she forgets to remember her body needs air, needs anything but the searing roar in her head, in her blood.
Getting closer and closer as everything gets higher, hotter, tighter, desperate want blotting out everything except him, his mouth, the fingers sliding in and out of her, her own hand, slipped into her bra, pinching her nipple hard, as her whole body becomes a wreck of faster and faster movement against his face, his mouth, his fingers, chasing the sizzling, searing, burning promise right at the edge of all of it, coming so close it demands every muscle in her body obey it over anything else.