echoestm

[echoestm]

Moan~ [Sam and whoever in the system she's thinking about at the time]

@silverflowingmyrrh || sweet sounds

Texting a head's up warning that she wouldn't be home in the morning was just meant to spare regular visitor a trip, not fish for help. Sam should have known he'd check in beyond just unquestioning acceptance. She wasn't trying to be secretive either. Somewhere between the two, she ends up picked up and cautiously escorted back to the Midnight Mission to keep a couple of bar lingerers from being able to follow her home.

She feels bad. Usually they spend time in the morning, AFTER he's done with work and stuff. He reminds, not for the first time, his flexibility. His reasons for living life as it called for in the moment, not just sticking to work or routine for either's sake. For lack of anything better to say, Sam playfully accuses as he delivers borrowable shirt and shorts... "Or this is just a clever way to get out of..." Finger taps her own cheek. The spot where she normally marks him instead, end of the morning, before he goes home. Nah, he offers cheek for staining if she likes, but Sam just laughs and playfully pretends to shove him away. She's going to sleep. He can get back some of his precious time.

The beauty of dreaming is the bliss of ignorance. Sam doesn't question them being back at her apartment without memory of the trip or the why. Jake belongs there. She is never not welcoming of him. No, it doesn't usually feature arms wound over his shoulders, little swaying to morning music but it could. Should? It's nice. It's always nice with him. Safe and soft and comfortable— in addition to being full of laughs, fun, trips and food. Adventures.

This is just another adventure. Backwards walk, for her, from ridiculous angular kitchen to bright sunny bedroom Bed is a cloud of cotton and pillows and sheets that puff with air and envelop them funny. See? Laughter. Falling into giant marshmallow. How else would it be? Faint tickles of mustache, new sensation for giggling girl. New everything, with new guy in new city starting new chapter.

She dreams it sweet and playful, laughter where she never thought there'd be any. Far more used to... something else. Unimportant. Forgotten when breaths go heavy between giggles, hands searching, clutching, holding on. Oh!

Externally, sentient house with a desire to be lived in keeps careful watch of precious cargo. It sees furrowed brows, hears little noises... whimpers? It knows groans and moans and whines. There is no danger here though. It knows the pictures from case files. Haunting face that hunts this one. Not allowed inside sanctuary. She is safe. And yet, she is in distress. Legs press together and shift under covers. Body tosses and turns. The house can not comfort or reassure that she is safe. It can only stand guard.

"Jayyyy..." Hard ch/k is lost to panting breath, rustling sheets, curling body seeking relief.

House decides called name is actionable. It can make other resident aware of trouble, bring him close, eliminate door that would be in his way if it still existed. Unnecessary barrier when it is assisting. Direct shot to wriggling crying girl instead.

"Jake! Mmmm... Jake. Don't stop..."

[echoestm]

Jennifer’s Body (2009) Dir. Karyn Kusama

[echoestm]

[ FIVE FIRSTS ]  send for five times our muses almost had their first time together and the one time it happens. (Feral boxer to feral lady)

@parvumchao || 5 Times

i.

There's something about the force with which he swings deadly lead hook that sings siren song to her— hijacks senses and rewrites her experience of the world with just the power of the violence bursting out of him like bull-heavy breaths. Time slows to a picture-warping crawl, eyes pulled in like they're locked and loaded on camera dolly track heading right for the octagonal altar on which he dances. Everything and everyone else falls away. There is only HIM, right arm lethally extended and connecting for eternity with unimportant face soon to be lights out on grimy bloodstained mat. Painted picture of everything that lives in the shadows of her ribs. Mirror. Counterpart. Familiar beast. Deja vu. Feral animal seeing reflection in night time watering hole for the first time ever. Hello. I know you. You are Me. I am You. Twenty-two strikes and a slash.

Time starts again. Opponent is felled tree, night night, sweet dreams. If it hurts in the morning, that's what he gets for getting into the ring. Couldn't he see what had been in there waiting? Danger blind? Stupid. Lou's shot gets downed for steadiness. Bar is returned to, drink slinger there grilled for standing fighter's preference. She buys two and carries them over like she's working the joint. Skips putting glass in wrapped hand and holds liquor to lips directly instead. He only looks mildly surprised. She doesn't feel it at all. Eyes work. She knows what he looks like, beast of violence aside. Knows what she probably passes as herself, given the heavy paw helping itself to her ass, pulling her close.

If it was about that, JUST THAT, she'd play ring girl for the night. Sure. Why not? She doesn't have any better plans for the night. Hot and heavy with him would scratch itches good, she knows it like she knows the smell of his sweat all of a sudden. Like she knows, affliction rising and whispering, layering lenses over vision, that they've met for better reason than one night stand.

He purrs offer in her ear and she feels his voice rush through her, settling low in her belly and smoldering there. He's rough hewn oak, something spiced and aged to delicious point. Could be her next addiction— the last she'd ever need. She says yes and she'd never see him again. Not in any way that counts. He's leashed wolf, loping in bloody circles at the end of a chain he probably doesn't even feel the weight of anymore. Some things, when attached too long, just sink beneath skin and become a part of you. She'd know.

"Why? So you can reinforce what you think you know? No. When I take you to my bed, it won't be for you to climb back out empty-bellied, hungry and dejected. I don't think it feeds you anymore. You just do it. Proof God hates you. Nothing changes. How long 'til you hate it? You still get anything out of it other than the hollow dread that it really does start feeling like nothing? Like worse the second that it's over?" Quiet words for his ear only, incongruent with the way she keeps letting him hold her— the way she cards black painted nails through short sweaty hair, wrapped up in him like she's saying YES instead of no. Maybe because she is saying yes, just not tonight. Not while he thinks it's just another hook-up after fight. Blithe punctuation to a life whose meaning has been truncated. Cross off list like brushing teeth and shaking junk after taking a leak. An order of events blurred and lived through on auto-pilot. She has an inkling that the only time he truly feels alive is when he's being hit hard enough to let go the leash and hit back twice as hard.

Sam's not surprised she goes home alone. Aching. It's going to be SO FUCKING GOOD when he catches on. When he sees her.

ii.

She comes back. He doesn't look surprised. She does, though. Feels it, like she feels the absence of signaled bouncers coming to flank her and escort her out. What does it even mean?

He fights. She watches. She nurses pangs that feel like wanting to get in the ring with him, shadow his back, protect his sides... hunt in pack. He's good, great even— but not untouchable. She hates every hit he takes, even if he takes them well. Not the point.

Fuck it. She's made worse decisions. Backroom staging area it is, hair catching on wood panel wall, legs barely wrapped around boxer-build torso. Feet on floor are a distant memory. She's got a mouth on her neck, hands on her waist, hungry sounds spilling out of her mouth to the beat of bodies trying to make the impossible happen through clothes. Pretty fantasy. Hard enough to get through two layers of denim. If anyone could, it'd be him.

They can fix this— if he just puts her down, she can get jeans open, down...

Fist pounds rudely on door, rattling it. Voice follows. "YO! DOM! LET'S GO, MAN!"

Fuck.

Last kisses for the night taste like sorrow. Soundtrack is still pounding and rattling while they touch foreheads, share breath, look for words... or maybe promises... something.

Reassurance.

Yeah. Yeah, she'll be back again. She'll find him again. They'll do more than this.

iii.

He doesn't live in the ring.

She doesn't only exist at night.

There is so much more to the story. A Shaun she never met. A reason Lou is searching, searching, searching. Always searching. Watching. Listening. Web of connections like six degrees. Nicky. Murph. Dom. Frankie. Not her people. Maybe Nicky. Something about her face... More than just ring girl. Still. Not Woodsboro. Not Ghostface. Not sure there's a place for her in this. Insecurity is a bitch.

It wears her father's shroud and creeps in her peripheral vision when she should be melting beneath him. Real? Fake? She can never tell. So many have tried. They're always trying. They don't know. It'll never be them. No last man standing. Final girl only.

She gasps for the wrong reason. Can't feel what he's doing, there was almost a knife at his back— gone now, never there to begin with. Existing long enough to expose her, put him wise. She can't. Can't. Can't focus on him, on his concern, his questions, the way he's looking with her for what he can't see. Not him. Only her. Shame burns. Goddamnit.

It's okay. That's what he says. It's okay. He's got her. Nothing's going to happen to her.

He stays. She grits teeth. Stares down her monsters. Fuckers. He holds her. In. Down. Back. Nothing to fight. Not that he can see. Not going to let her knife air and wall and floor. He takes the old man's blade away. Says she doesn't need it. She's got him.

She's got him. He's got her.

iv.

They don't just find a night, they make one.

Theirs.

No pounding door. No waiting match. No bar. No spooks.

No rush is a weird one. She's pretty sure they lose a couple of hours just kissing. Even in Woodsboro, when it was new and shiny, she never just spent hours kissing anyone. Making out was hot and heavy. Precursor. Appetizer. Kiss kiss, grind grind, get in back of car or top of barn loft and do the other things.

Kissing Dom is something else. Little peeks in between. Hello. Gentle awe and wonder. He's here. He's real. He's so fucking pretty. Cuteness aggression. The desire to grab and crush and destroy such beauty so up close and personal. Sam wants to eat him. Or something. When she doesn't keep her mouth busy with his or at least his skin, too many words come out. Internal thoughts bubbling out, making him laugh and wow... what's that about? Never gushed like that at sound of guy laughing, amused, smiling like that.

Somewhere along the line, they make it to her bedroom. Clean sheets, made bed. Half a pity. She could stand for it to smell of Lou a bit. Hold her hand, give her courage. Let her know it's going to be okay.

They invent skin. Where does this freckle come from? What happened here? Why scar? Knife tip in her shoulder. Slash across her bicep. Deep wound low near her hip. Kisses for all of them. The same way she puts mouth to every mark on him. Birthmarks. Nicks. Pieces of him unmarred and yet still kissed and claimed. Bodies. Revealed. Explored. Touch so soft and reverent it never quite catches fire. Just... drifting fingers, kiss-swallowing soft noises... dopey staring, eyes into eyes.

...

v.

She doesn't realize she's fallen asleep until she's waking up from it. Sun's out. Dom's out. Soft breathing, faintly stirring when she does. What the fuck? Why does she still have underwear on? Why is this her life?

Happy is a stupid look on him. He tries to kiss her and she whacks him with pillow to face. Before teeth-brushing? Absolutely not.

Bed's temporarily vacated. Threats are made. If she comes back from bathroom and he has clothes on? They will die violently by knife, then fire, and then he'll have to go home naked and think about why that happened.

His laughter should be outlawed.

When everyone has clean teeth and nice breath again, Sam pulls him close and wraps legs around him. It's been too long. They are doing this. Today. Now. Or else.

He just wants to know why she's still talking then and she has to remind herself that if she stabs him too soon, everything falls apart.

Then the phone rings.

Truly, no good deed goes unpunished. Jeans go on. He rushes out, cell pressed to his ear.

Someone's going to die.

i.

Sam rebuffs him a while. No. Every time they want... every time they try... every fucking time...

She's not interested in another tease or interruption.

You're the hold up now, sweetheart. Sweet kisses to the side of her neck, right where he knows it makes her shudder. Desire yawns wide, threatens to swallow her whole. His hands on her waist are all but a belt. Music plays in her head. I'm so small and tiny, he's so big and tall~.

His place. It has a kitchen that works, so she haunts it. Feeds her man like she wants to. Frying pan sizzles. Cubed potatoes are crispy on outside, creamy soft on inside and not for picking at. She defends them with wooden spoon, whapping away sneaky fingers looking to steal more than one kind of a taste. These are not for now. They're for later. Pieces of whole meal still to be assembled.

If he can't have one, he wants the other. Sam agrees just to see the sky fall in.

For once, it doesn't.

[echoestm]

im so tired of this life. i want to be a roomba. i want knives taped to me. and i want to be set loose.

[echoestm]

@murmurstm

[echoestm]

Cardboard box of precious possessions is nearly thrown at hallucination— like it'd do anything. The worst part is knowing that he comes from within her, his voice, her voice; his every nasty spiteful thought secretly or subconsciously one of her own, just dressed up in pretty face from endless docus and stolen yearbook. Frustration with Tara gets filtered through him, twisted up and spit out as something she doesn't want to hear. She IS her sister, no matter what conjured up old man says.

Cold fact statement on love makes her hiss, bodily reaction reminding her that she needs to keep moving, not stalling out in apartment hallway calling attention to personal problems. She's already been labeled 'unstable' and a 'born killer' in print. The last thing she needs is twitter retellings of being caught out, arguing with air or self. Billy can talk to her back. She'll hear him no matter what she does, but she WILL get boxes on truck with minimal incidents.

"Maybe I was just trying to spare her this shit." Sight and sound of big sister afflicted. Tara's blood on her hands was baby's first hallucination after the diary. The irrational fear that something came over her or out of her at night, when she couldn't remember it, and eradicated innocent little sibling. Her first thought when Judy's son called to say Tara had been attacked was 'where was I last night?' like Modesto wasn't far enough away to keep her safe. She could have been continents away and Sam would still have suspected herself first. She knows what he knows. She is wolf in slaughtered lamb's borrowed clothing. She's temper and rage and a rightfully called out violence that makes her confess to flailing therapists that 'it felt right' to stab a man twenty-two times, slit his throat, and shoot him a bunch to make sure it stuck.

Tara's right to run. The old man pesters. Her upset is her own. One more fight could be the one that broke surface tension and made her spill blood. Again. There's some kind of logic to preserving Tara in death. If she kills her, she can't leave. Can't get hurt by someone else. Can't get got at all.

"I'm not you. I did know better. I knew to get out. Away. I didn't predict your sick fanboy dragging her back in. She would have been safe." Even if Sam had gone off the deep end elsewhere, put on the mask and made a mess in the bowling alley, Tara would have been safe. But first there was Richie and now there's been the Bailey's and behind sister's back falsely ditched mask and inheritance was picked right back up and stashed away.

She's been running circles around cops since she was thirteen. It'd been NOTHING to get back into the shrine and recover her father's personal effects. Shroud, mask, and stained Buck 120. She tells herself it's to keep it off the dreddit black market a second time, prevent another Richie, but she can tell by the look on his face, he knows better.

Careful there. With words.

" And she's not your real sister. "

Sammy. No ID card is thicker than.

" So, no love lost. "

She looks so much like him, the way she moves, expecting, no, egging something on to happen. She's desperate for a mirror. He didn't have one, but he won't leave her hanging.

He waits for the boiling over, his girl, his blood. It's been nearing one schizo pill at a time. She's been neglecting her meds all while wanting a hit of somethin' real. Happens when you put on a smoothing mask of normal people to hold step with the herd. She's not a sheep like the rest. She's what kills the sheep.

" That why you treated her like that? For five years. You were an adult, Sam. You knew better, " but let instinct take charge. You can only turn your back on one not of your own.

[echoestm]

send "moan~" for my muse to call out your muse's name while pleasuring themselves.

Alternatively, send "moan for me~" to be the one making my muse moan your muse's name.

[echoestm]

[Sam] watches [Steven] while drinking her beverage.

@silverjetsystm || ready, set, action!

It is a very fetching tie that Steven, playfully Estefan in the privacy of her mind when the mood is right, is wearing— but that's so very par for the course or whatever. He dresses to impress, is always fashionable and in addition to being a rising social media star of the hot variety, he could easily be the primary love interest of any Univision novela. The CEO of some horribly rich Mexican company that's never really explained, too beautiful for his own good, and no doubt temporarily engaged to the season one villainess until heroine is introduced and plot... plots. The thought of his Spanish as she's heard it makes her need a big guzzle from straw in icy drink, an effort to keep her face from heating.

None of which explains the pestering desire to walk over to his desk, wrap hand a few times in tie and use it to haul him into something passionate and messy. Lipstick she isn't wearing smearing everywhere, papers on floor, Hollywood set dressing for explosive ardor that can't be contained and has to be translated into fogged up lens, blurry silhouette of bodies moving together in telling ways. Well... depending on the rating. Her brain desperately needs to recover it's usual PG-13 setting before she gets caught staring like a fish out of water.

Instead it supplies the ever so helpful thought that the scene would work better if she were in heels. Skinny sharp pointy heels. They'd provide pretty clicking soundtrack to predatory approach, and if she nailed the choreography right, one could be planted right between his legs on office chair when she spins him towards herself and does the tie thing. Why??? Who knows. Not her. She hasn't ever executed a move like that in her life and worse— if she really had to guess, she's not sure it'd be the right one on him. He's the one dressed to kill. It should be him strutting into frame, invading space with planted hand and criminal lean-in before he does something terribly wonderful. The other way makes for pretty movie storyboard, has a classic aesthetic to it but... it'd have to end in a tussle, she thinks. Best case scenario, something out of Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Sexy fight for upper hand. In one corner, whatever her brain is on, attempting to... dominate him??? In the other, one man with his lunch bowl interrupted, having to course-correct such a ridiculous idea by showing how it's actually done.

Annnnnnnd now he's looking back, so if she could get back to reality? In which the feelings are guilt-laden and unwelcome and tinged with the unfortunate way her heart knocks painfully for another... "Yay? Nay? This place was new to me, but they had an A cleanliness rating on the door and everything smelled pretty good." Lunch. She can pretend the staring is about gauging new poke-bowl place over ice bath needing intrusive thoughts.

[echoestm]

@murmurstm || from here

[text: des] ??? [text: des] you're so helpful, des. thanks. [text: des] can you plz find out for me without telling?

Is she supposed to know on account of being... booed up, like he puts it? Maybe. It sounds about right when she thinks about it. Yet it had never really come up. Not until now, when she's thinking about buying Sammy some sneakers, browsing a few different sites only to get stumped at the question of his shoe size. It seemed logical to her that one of his friends would know. Asking Sammy directly would just give away the intended surprise and he stood a fair chance at talking her out of splurging. Des stirs a different complex entirely. Is she a bad girlfriend??? Bastard.

[echoestm]

♢      —         𝐀 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 ‘𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐒’ 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒

inspired by those “five times our muses do something” memes. there used to be one years ago like this one and i can’t seem to ever find it again so i just made my own.  receiver = muse receiving the meme / sender = muse sending the meme

general trigger warnings for: nsfw, angst, violence, death, 

[ FIVE KISSES ]  send for five times our muses almost kissed and the one time they do.

[ FIVE TOUCHES ]  send for five times our muses almost touch and the one time they do.

[ FIVE GLANCES ]  send for five times the receiver watched the sender and the one time the receiver does something about it. 

[ FIVE DEATHS ]  send for five times our muses almost died together and the one time the sender does.

[ FIVE CUDDLES ]  send for five times our muses nearly cuddle and the one time they finally do.

[ FIVE CALLS ]  send for five times the receiver nearly calls the sender and the one time they do.

[ FIVE SCARS ]  send for the five times the sender almost asks the receiver about their scars the the one time they do.

[ FIVE SMILES ]  send for five times one muse makes the other smile and the one time they share a smile.

[ FIVE FIRSTS ]  send for five times our muses almost had their first time together and the one time it happens.

[ FIVE CONFESSIONS ]  send for five times the receiver almost says ‘i love you’ and the one time they do.

[ FIVE VISTS ]  send for the five times our muses try to plan a trip and the one time they succeed. 

[ FIVE TEXTS ]  send for five unsent texts from the receiver and one sent text. 

[ FIVE NUDES ]  send for five times the receiver almost sent a nude and the one time they do.

[ FIVE GIFTS ]  send for five times the receiver tried to give a gift to the sender and the one time they do.

[ FIVE PLEAS ]  send for five times the receiver wanted to ask the sender to stay and the one time they do.

[ FIVE BRUSHES ]  send for the for the five times our muses almost hold hands and the one time they do. 

[ FIVE FIGHTS ]  send for the five times our muses almost get into a fight and the one time they do.

[echoestm]

Mr. Knight commission by Alessandro Cappuccio

[echoestm]

"You're Mine" Billy/Stu

@voicestm || talk 'em through it

"Uh-huh..." Tongue out, puppy dumb Stu nods his happy agreement to the old claim. He's pretty sure he's been some version of Billy's since elementary recess, long before it was this. Parts of him will always be his. Whole slices of heart and soul and soft mushy parts that ache in ways only Billy knows about and understands. And then there's this too. A very different dirty little secret added to their collection. Somewhere between Maureen, Ghostface and keeping local girls on arms for optics, alibis and beyond. It's not Stu's favorite secret but he'll be damned if he feels like he can live without it anymore. Eager throat starts to miss the collar of Billy's hands around it, squeezing tight, deciding how much he gets to breathe and for how long.

Sometimes there's a bratty impulse to challenge his ownership— remind Billy of what he gets up to as legendary party host, official boyfriend and all around good time boy, but it's just a subset of wanting to have claim reaffirmed painfully. Stu likes the way it unbalances Billy. The way it shakes that control he's always wielding and welded to, breaking it until he's acting out without thought or pause or calculation. Making a mess of him that seems to surprise him when the moment works itself out of his system. Stu has yet to figure out if Billy is shocked that Stu can work his strings or what it is that comes out of him when he's unfettered. A canvas that wriggles and whimpers for him, accepting accepting accepting and still asking for more.

"At least tonight, buddy... got a thing with Tatum tomorrow." Not really. Nothing on the books and nothing possible when Billy predictably bruises and bloodies him everywhere t-shirt and jeans covers... forcing him to abstain from occasions that would call for taking it off. No dates, no hanky panky, no exposure that would give up the game. Stu's got his excuses lined up and ready, as well practiced as every other drill they run in boots and slickers. All that's left after striking match and spitting it in Billy's direction is waiting for the fire that consumes them both.

[echoestm]

quiet men will fuck the shit out of you

[echoestm]

WOCMEME ✽ [2/8] fictional women of color sam carpenter — scream

[echoestm]

"Mark me. Mark me so everyone knows who I belong to." To Sam

@prettytm || talk 'em through it

She could. She might. The old man's buck 120 is in her hand for good reason, and yet... "It's not YOU I want to mark." At least... not ONLY him. Downstairs is a party's worth of entertainers. That's what he calls them. Sam thinks it's a stupid name for eye-candy. She thinks it's an even poorer decision on his part not to make it clear that he's not on the menu. So she marks him; a shallow little line opened up by tip of blade dragged from chin down down down to base of throat. Little more than a papercut and more than well hidden by his beard. Pleasure comes from her hand never shaking as she does it. Maybe a little too from the way he tips head back and tries to lean into it, like he wants it deeper...

Sam understands. She has her own knife thing, courtesy of the one and only time Richie actually managed to rearrange her guts. Billy knows. He keeps a knife up his sleeve and regularly adds to the reasons she has to wear wetsuits or at least rashguards and shorts to the beach. Nerve damage. Pain doesn't work right. Or maybe it only works right for them and everyone else should be so lucky to feel what they do when honed edge plunges into flesh.

A second line joins the first. Long scratches that barely bead up with red, in neat parallel lines that no one will ever get close enough to really see, except maybe him in the mirror the next time he shaves.

"If you know who you belong to, what makes you think I won't put you the fuck to sleep first and then go give them something to smile about? Ear to ear?" Knife demonstrates on her own tan skin, her own throat and jaw. One side all the way to the next. The last smile they'd ever wear. Love ala Ghostface.

[echoestm]

"I wanna go again." (Sorry, Stu?? Lou's insatiable.)

@parvumchao || talk 'em through it

"Where's Armstrong to tag in when I need him?" The complaint is all noise, little truth behind it; said through a laugh that makes blue eyes crinkle at the corners. An old joke, though the invite has been sincere since he got out of the joint and heard for himself how Ed stood in for him, was there for his girl when he couldn't be. Stu loves him for it in his own way, though maybe that's the problem— scaring Eddie off. He doesn't HAVE to be involved, though he'd like to be. They could keep the focus on the woman they both love. Of course, he'd actually have to say that instead of just giving playful blessings over drinks and family style visits.

No doubt Lou has plenty to say about it, he hears her voice even as he pulls covers up and over his head for his big trip down south. Yeah yeah, he knows. Kind of. She's not fully Charlie Brown's teacher, words turned to indecipherable WAH WAH WAH, but he's heard the usual complaints about his mind and mouth both enough that it's okay if he misses out this once. It's nothing new. She married him anyway and that's what really says it all. Anything she's got to yelp about now is something she signed on the dotted line for.

Legs sticking out from rumpled sheets and dangling off of bed edge, he likely makes a funny sight perfect for sitcom-type interruption. Lucky them, Ollie is likely off somewhere being a menace to society. He's safe in the dark, wife's thighs on either side of his head, her still-dripping sex right in his face, signed in his love. Still his favorite meal— favorite thing to do with a girl since someone taught him how to put overly long tongue to use.

He's gentle in lapping his way up her slit, careful with lingering oversensitivity. Takes his time splitting seam of lips with the tip of his tongue, tasting himself as he goes, finding the swollen little knot at the top and circling it. He eases her into the pleasure, teasing light and soft to build it back up slowly, let her relax into it. Her body tells him what he needs to know, melting slowly from initial ready tension into something languid and gently flowing. He moves with her, long familiar now with her rhythms, what it takes to get her where he wants her to go. When and how to dial up the intensity, let his hunger peek through, his noises... his eagerness. Puts his face in it when she starts rocking against him, hands scrabbling over the sheets covering his head for something to grip or pet and generally clutch at. Knows when to slip his fingers inside her and curl, walking them in little step motions against hot inner walls, making the mess of their fluids worse and more and lapping it all up until she's come again and he's right back where he started, gentling her through it slowly and softly.

After that? Yeeaaah, he's about ready for another round.

[echoestm]

divinity kink in less of a "fuck me in a nun habit" way and more of a "put me on my knees and rewrite my understanding of faith and show me what a loving god's hand feels like and give me mercy and wrath and splendor and leave your communion dripping from my lips and teach me how every part of my body was meant to worship you"