After Prague, Danicka had flashes of it: a sudden sharp memory of agony through her hand, endless fog all around her, golden talons piercing her body as she screamed his name. It was a half-second, that moment when Red was no longer occupying her body and somehow causing it to shapeshift, but Danicka remembers it.
And there are dreams, too. Vague shadows, everything dim as though seen through a veil, of the journey. Of the pain and threat in Lukas's eyes when he was telling Red that she had to move on, she could not keep Danicka's body forever, of the dawning understanding as they went on. As he learned that once, Red had been his sister. As he learned that once, they had all been a pack.
She remembers the night he came back very well. Going to bed in her sister's house and sleeping so deeply; waking as he slipped into bed, smelling of sweat and the hunt and some strange, shifting, indescribable scent that lingers on his skin when he comes back from the spirit world. She remembers that something heavy and dark, terrified and hateful and grief-stricken, had eased in his eyes. She remembers that he touched her gently, verging on hesitant, as though he was scared he would do some irreparable harm to her. She remembers that hesitance melting away into familiarity, into comfort, into firm strokes and quietly panted breaths of air. She remembers how close he stayed to her. And how no matter how many times she had or will lie down on her back with him, that night she felt more protective of him than she ever has.
Danicka remembers him falling asleep still entwined in her, holding her tightly as though to staunch a wound. She remembrs stroking his hair, eyes closed, mind drifting in and out of those odd dreamlike memories that Red's possession left her with, and as she slipped into sleep with her mate-husband,
her ghost told his ghost:
it's all right. you're all right. you're with me. you'll always be with me.
Or something of that nature. Ghosts do not really communicate in words.
--
Neither of them know it, but that was the night they made Eliska and Tatiana. Neither of them will know it. Maybe they guess.
--
Danicka smiles against Lukas's kiss, still grinning. He sneaks more bites, ever the sweet tooth, and she shrugs into her coat and winds her scarf around her neck again, puts her hat on, buttons her coat as they are putting on their gloves and paying the check and stepping ouside. She moves slightly behind him, allowing him to take the brunt of the wind whenever it breezes through.
They summon a cab to their curb and climb inside, and Danicka shivers and directs the driver to Kingsbury. It's not far, ten minutes or so, and this time she doesn't try to feel up her husband in the car. She does whisper in his ear in the language they were both born to that she
cannot wait to get my mouth on that cock
and that she'd
fuck you right here if you'd let me.
They do not fuck in the cab, though. They get out, paying yet another cabbie, and going upstairs to the vast apartment that Danicka used to call... her place. Not home. The bedroom that was once Martin's and once Liadan's and once Paul's and once Danicka's lab is a bedroom again, refurnished for the nanny. The lab lives in the basement now, and truth be told, Danicka doesn't get to work very much down there these days, and they've talked about putting up a wall, a door, making her a real office down there when they get a chance.
Her old bedroom at Kingsbury has also been refurnished; her bed is gone, the bedding taken home to use in their own bedroom. The space serves as both playroom and nap room for the twins. The entire apartment is still Danicka's property, purchased over a few months while the girls were growing and she was preparing to go back to school. But for the most part, their nanny calls it home, and Danicka knocks before sliding her key into the front door to tiptoe inside. It's late, and pitch dark outside, and the nanny is in the living room watching a movie with the volume turned low. She talks briefly with them about the girls tonight, what they ate and when, so forth. Actually: she talks to Lukas about that, because Danicka, as usual, slips off to go see her daughters, leaving Lukas to tip their nanny for the extra babysitting.
In the bedroom where she first told him that she wanted him to challenge her brother and take her as his own, Danicka is carefully lifting one of the sleeping infants up, wrapping her in a blanket rather than trying to do coat and hat and all that. Tatiana stirs and makes a small noise as she's moved to her mother's shoulder, and in sympathy, Eliska moves in her sleep on the mattress, jerking her fist slightly and yawning without ever opening her eyes. The moon is heavy, but not heavy enough that Lukas can't pick up the other girl. She does open her eyes then, looking up at him in the dark, her tiny soft mouth open as though in awe. She whines, hating the blanket fold covering her head, but she doesn't realize how cold it is outside. So he holds the blanket over her, and she sucks morosely on her fingers until she drowses again on his chest.
Their car seats still face backward; Danicka and Lukas tuck them in, buckle them in, and cover them with light blankets to block out streetlights and muffle noise and keep them warm until the car heats up. Danicka keeps grinning strangely, biting back laughter, and it's not until they're driving that he asks and then she is whispering to him, telling him that sometimes,
it's still so surreal.
This life. The two of them, becoming the four of them. She could not have imagined this, five years ago. Any of this.
--
There is another slow process when they get Lukas's BMW into the garage in Stickney; Danicka whispering apologies to Eliska as she sort-of wakes her up again, Tatiana crashed out completely in Lukas's arms. Doors closing and opening as quietly as they can, two sets of stairs taken gently, pups laid to rest for the remainder of the night with their little white-noise machine and their little running fountain up on a shelf and wearing their cozy pajamas and tiny blankets. Never quite woken completely, the twins fall back into deep sleep without a struggle; this is their own bed, and their own den, and it smells like themselves and each other and their parents.
Kandovany is downstairs somewhere, curled up in her hiding place in the bed Lukas once gave her, which she once rejected haughtily just to watch his heart break. The house is very quiet, and outside the wind doesn't even make the trees creak. Their room is dark, with its ridiculous bean bags near the window and the bookshelf more full than when it was bought, the bed... well. It is unmade, the sheets soft flannel but the comforter a mid-weight one because when Lukas is with her Danicka doesn't need the blankets to keep her warm and when he's not with her she just puts a throw blanket on top. It is all rumpled and lived-in and he has been here the past few nights and his pillow smells like him even if they changed the sheets recently because they couldn't keep their hands off of each other.
It's their home and their bed and of course Danicka, Danicka who has never been all that concerned with tidiness outside of her lab, who always had dirty dishes in the sink and clothes on the floor, starts stripping out of her outerwear finally, dropping things wherever they might land, unbuttoning her coat and stepping out of her heels and watching him from the middle of the room,
daring him.
LukasIt is surreal. This life. The two of them, and now the four of them, and their den and their cat and their family, all of it a dream that they wouldn't even have dared to dream five years ago.
He understands her grin. Her laughter. And her wonder at it all, driving home. Leaving the city and its glittering lights behind; winding out to the suburbs, the darker plains all-aglow with snow tonight. Their pups sleeping in the back, their seats still facing backwards; their heads covered with tiny soft blankets because it is so very, very cold,
but he isn't afraid for them. He would give his life for them, the last heat of his body to keep them, and Danicka, warm. He knows that, and it takes away the fear and the worry.
--
When they scoop the babies out of the car, Eliska fusses a little but Tatiana is zonked out. They trade this time, perhaps only subconsciously meaning to: and so it's Danicka who picks Eliska up, Danicka who settles her fussing or receives that wide-eyed, open-mouthed look of hers that had made Lukas laugh with quiet and adoring hilarity back at the apartment.
The girls are still so tiny that Lukas needs only one hand to hold each one, and though in the first few months he was terrified to do this, terrified that he might drop his daughters, he has been a father for a year now and he is growing into the role. He holds Tatiana in the crook of his arm, tucked and covered; he carries the twin-carrier in his other hand, Danicka's bookbag taking the place of babies in it. It leaves Danicka to hold her purse and fish out her keys, and while she fits them into the door Lukas rocks his tiny one gently, tipping back his head to look at the stars. He can't wait for the day he can show the girls the constellations; teach them the stories that men tell, and the ones that Garou tell.
Inside, Lukas takes off his shoes and turns up the heat. They take the twins to bed, tuck them and settle them. Lukas lingers over them a moment, his large hand resting beside his tiny daughters, his smile soft, his heart so full it feels ready to burst.
So he leaves them in the nursery before he simply implodes. He shuts the door to keep the warmth in, though only after making sure the baby monitor is on. He comes to their room, looking around for Kandovany, but Kando is sleeping in her own bed. And so he shuts their door as well, and meanwhile
his wife-mate is taking off her coat,
is stepping out of her heels,
is drawing a slow crooked smile to his face because he thinks of what she said in the taxi, and the dessertbar, and the other taxi. He tosses his gloves atop one of those ridiculous beanbag chairs. His scarf. His coat, shrugged out of and laid down. Then his shirt, unbuttoned as he comes to Danicka in his stockinged feet. His hands are busy with the fastenings, but he touches her all the same -- touches her with his mouth, meeting her mouth, kissing her there in the middle of the room, peeling his shirt off his shoulders.
And his undershirt, pulled up and off. And the cool air striking his skin, raising gooseflesh, raising the fine hairs on his arms. His belt buckle clinks. He is still kissing her, slowly and deeply and familiarly, because they have known each other five years, and a lifetime, and a thousand lifetimes before that. His pants drop. He scoops her off the ground, their kiss parting for a low laugh, his mouth to her neck then, his mouth to her collarbone. He lays a series of small kisses there along that slender shaft of bone, carrying her over to their bed to sit on the edge, their soft and rumpled and lived-in bedding all around them, their expensive and supportive and lived-in mattress dipping beneath their weight.
DanickaWith Danicka, Eliska just drops off again. They are still so young, and so dependent, and even on the best weeks, they see and hear and smell their mother more than their father. They are still on breastmilk when they wake up and when they go to sleep, whether from a bottle or Danicka's own breast; she has no rage to run up and down their spine. Eliska, who seemed so started and awed to look up at Lukas when he took her out of Kingsbury, simply goes back to sleep against her mom's shoulder. Tatiana, always the heavier sleeper, smacks her mouth a few times as her head moves to rest on her dad's arm, trusting and unconcerned.
Danicka calls them both so big, such big girls; they are positively dwarfed by their father when he holds them. He is so very tall, his shoulders so very broad. When he lays them to rest and crouches by their bed, one large hand on the mattress between their bodies, it becomes even more evident that if there were some sort of blast rolling towards them, he could shield them both at once with his body. Even this body, his most fragile of all the forms he can take.
He lingers. Danicka kisses their heads and double-checks the monitor, slipping through the bathroom to their room. Lukas, of course, triple-checks the monitor before he follows her, quietly shutting doors, looking across the room in the dark at his mate.
She smiles at him.
He undresses for her.
--
And it is that, then: Lukas sheds everything faster than she does, leaning over her to kiss her, but she draws back, smirking at him while he takes off his shirt for her, his undershirt, his belt, his pants. She draws back, down to her skin-tight jeans and her cashmere, licking her lips as she looks at him. Her hand is light on his chest, staying him where he would devour her mouth, trailing slowly down his abdominals as he bares himself to her. She doesn't touch another garment of her own, but lets him lift her up, her smile lazy and lopsided, carrying her to the bed, sitting on it with her on his lap.
She kisses him then. Softly, and teasingly, just on his lower lip. "I want to suck on it," she whispers, following that with another kiss. "What do you want me to wear?" She kisses him a third time, more deeply. "Lingerie? Nothing at all?" Another kiss, her tongue flicking over his lips, her eyes darting to his in the dim moonlight coming through the windows. "Manacles?"
Boring people.
Unspeakable things.
LukasThere was a time, early on, when lifting Danicka like this drove home how very thin she was. How undernourished, how painfully spare. And it was painful for him to feel it, even then; even though he tried his best to pretend not to care. To pretend, even, that this was just how she was supposed to be because goddammit she was a beautiful blonde from New York City, and why should he care if she was starving herself for beauty?
He's learned, since then, that she doesn't eat when she's stressed. And so she must not be stressed now, because she eats now -- though he's had to learn, too, that sometimes too much is too much, that he shouldn't press her to eateateateateat because then she would grow cross, or feel ill. But: she eats now, she feels secure and safe now most the time, and when he lifts her and carries her and sets her on his lap he can feel the warmth and vitality to her, the health, the strength.
That smile of hers trickles down his spine like honey. It's so lazy, and it's so lopsided, and he's so charmed by it; so -- let's just say it -- seduced by it. She kisses him and his eyes close even if hers do not. He murmurs: mmm. She tells him: she wants such and such. His eyes open again. He smiles back at her, their faces close, their room full of warm shadows. She gives him options.
She can see
the flash in his eyes
the gleam of hunger when she offers something just a little bit unmentionable. She can feel his breathing hitch, and his solid arms tighten a little around her. He kisses her. Quite fiercely. Tumbles backward on the bed with her, his hands pulling at her sweater, rucking it up to her ribs.
"I'm going to have to admit," he whispers, "the manacles sound intriguing. But," because this is Lukas; because even in the best of times he can't help but worry just a little, "you don't have to. You know that."
He knows she knows that. Still.
DanickaDanicka is healthy. Danicka is actually rather strong. Danicka isn't practicing kung fu right now, but she was; Danicka practices yoga and when push comes to shove she just hits the treadmill or elliptical at Kingsbury or the university. Danicka still forgets to eat, or is too anxious to eat, around finals time. Around the time of the twins' first cold she was a bit of a wreck, and that may yet be the only time when Lukas's pushing her to eat was well and truly necessary because if she didn't take care of herself, she couldn't take care of them. It seemed to flick some switch in her; when this past quarter ended and her exams came around, she set a little alarm on her phone. She snacked even if she didn't feel like it.
Even that tension, those strange childhood-induced fears, can get better with time. With care. With support. And now when Lukas lifts her up in his arms she feels so much more solid. Her breasts are larger, if a bit softer, than they used to be. Her hips are a little rounder, her clavicles not so stark. Strangely, she looks younger. She shifts into his hands so that his palms caress her ass; she always has liked that.
She gives him options. How he'd like to see her, feel her, when she goes down on him. He knows that her collection of lingerie is... extensive. Last year was the only birthday of his they celebrated together where she didn't give him lingerie, give him herself, as a present, for obvious reasons. She likes it. She likes seeing what it does to him. Sometimes she buys things and doesn't wear them for weeks or months, because she saw it and thought of how it might turn him on. How hard it would make him. How he'd take it off with his teeth.
Lukas just drops them back to the bed, pushing her sweater up. She kisses his neck as he slides his hand over her torso, palming her ribcage, tracing the edge of her bra. He 'admits' that the manacles sound intriguing. And it's like she can hear him starting to worry, even as she's moving atop him, kissing his throat, licking his ear,
because she stops him before he gets past you do--. She just slides her hand over his mouth. She rolls her hips against him, still clad in that tight denim. She bites his earlobe.
LukasLukas gasps.
That's what becomes of his you don't have to. It turns into a gasp, short and surprised and aroused, his lips parting against her palm. And then there is a flurry of motion, there is her cashmere sweater coming up and up and up, and then he's pulling it off and she's raising her arms and he has his free hand on her back, his thumb following the supple sweep where her back becomes her shoulder, her arm. Her sweater finds its way to the floor.
Whatever she wears underneath it, he starts in on that, too. His eyes on hers. His mouth kissing her fingers now; nipping and sucking and kissing her palm, her fingertips, the hand that silences him.
DanickaHe wants her naked, then. At least at first, at least for now. Danicka helps him with her sweater, but her bra -- which is just as boring as she pretended they would be, simple cotton and soft and normal -- is up to him. Her hand has to leave his mouth when he takes her sweater off, and there's a ripple of electricity through her hair.
His fingers find the clasp, the hooks, dislodging them. Danicka presses her hands to the bed and pushes herself up over him, dipping her shoulders and sliding the straps of her bra down her arms, letting it fall off the edge of the bed as well. She comes back to him then, laying herself out atop him, kissing his mouth now, breasts to his chest, hands reaching for his, drawing them to her jeans.
"Undress me," she whispers. "Then get them from the closet."
LukasIt's true: he loves the lingerie she buys. He's inflamed by the sight of her in lace and silk. It makes him hard for her, hot for her, makes it so that he can barely wait sometimes to tumble her into bed and take those things off her. With his teeth.
But this, too. This boring bra, simple cotton and soft and normal. Even that turns him on. Even that makes him give a little shiver as he puts his hands on her breasts through it; even that has his fingers fumbling a little to undo the clasp. To draw them off her shoulders. When she lets it fall his eyes are drawn instantly to her breasts. He cups them again, skin to skin this time, groaning as she comes down to him, kissing her even as she kisses him.
Her jeans. She shows him the button, the zipper. He gets to work; it's almost thoughtless. He's lost in the feel of her body to his, her breasts to his chest, her softness such a maddening contrast to his hardness. He steals a hand free, and he finds her hands, her arms; he wraps her arms around him while he's working her jeans open,
and off,
because soon enough he'll be getting those manacles from the closet. He'll be tying her up and tying her down and she won't be able to put her arms around him anymore and that: that is a loss that almost makes him want to forget about the handcuffs after all. Almost.
Her jeans shimmied off her legs, then. He kicks them to the floor for her. Now their clothes are all over the place, a haphazard circle around the bed. He slides his thumbs under her panties. They go next, they go last, his hand covers her ass, rubs and kneads as he works that last scrap of lingerie is shed to the floor. He sits up against then: sits up with her on his lap just the way they were when he first took her to bed. He takes a moment, her arms soft around his shoulders, her body soft against his body. This kiss is slow, and it goes on for some time, and as it is drawing to a end he stands, turns, sets her down on the edge of the bed.
"Wait for me," he whispers. As though she might simply stand up and walk away if he didn't. As though she might actually do such a thing as that.
DanickaThose jeans are ridiculously tight; they cling to her. He has to fight them down, peel them off her legs, and she's slashing that grin at him while he works. There's not much kicking free: these have to be pulled off of her, her legs drawn up and the denim tugged from her ankles and she's delighted when she's bare to her underwear, dark blue and just as soft and plain as her bra but oh they're very nearly seamless she still wears such fine things, such costly things against her skin.
But when she can, yes: her arms around him, looping around his neck and her fingers in his hair and her mouth on his mouth, kissing him and touching his chest, his arms, his sides as he has her lift her hips, as he drags those panties down her hips, stroking her ass and making her whimper into that kiss with his touch. She's naked then, wrapping her legs around him when he sits them up again, leaning into him so her body can feel his body, so he can still feel her breasts on his chest. He stands, lifting her again, and when he sets her down and tells her to wait,
she breathes laughter into the air. She's the one that's had her hands and mouth all over him tonight. Maybe he thinks she'd go downstairs for a snack if he takes too long.
Well. It is Danicka.
She might.
--
When they moved all of her things out of Kingsbury, they brought several tidy and stackable plastic containers from underneath her bed. These, as Lukas discovered, held... toys. Not just the manacles he had once worn and broken, or the ones he'd given her as replacements, or the ones he gave her for Christmas one year chained to a cock-ring. These held all manner of things for Danicka to use on herself or others, to share, the vast majority of which made him slightly... red.
Like that smoothly curving, lovely item of white and orange. Like that little ring with dual vibrators -- she mentioned its name was 'Duet' with amusement and told him she'd show him sometime what it does. A palm-sized pink silicone friend that has a vague U-shape. A thin, purple C-shaped one. And those are just a few of the ones that vibrate. There's ticklers and masks and gags and beads and nipple clamps (feathered!) and paddles and soft floggers and not-so-soft floggers and a couple of different strap-ons and everything is so neat and tidy and clean and none of it had been used in a long time. Danicka unpacked them all in the den's bedroom with Lukas, like going through a box of keepsakes, rediscovering things she thought she'd gotten rid of. She cheated her eyes to him occasionally, not sure whether to explain this or that or if he knew. After all, he surprised her on their wedding night: she didn't assume he'd ever taken Ecstasy before.
He was so red that she wanted him then and there, wanted right away for him to turn her over and take her, but they repacked. They made a few more trips back to the den. She found him later in the closet, after she'd sorted out things to get rid of and things to keep -- the strap-ons, after all, she won't be needing again -- putting the boxes up on those high shelves. Taking one down, looking at it, looking at her.
Playing with her.
--
That's not to say they've made a regular habit of it. They never have. They've never particularly wanted or needed to. But they both know they're there now. They've played with a couple of those vibrating toys; they haven't even tied one another down for ages. Lying now on their bed, Danicka tries to think of the last time, and she's only coming up with that Christmas at the W, his birthday, her gift. Her breath catches.
It's not hard to find the manacles that will fit Danicka's wrists: they're black, lined with white fur. The chains are cold to the touch.
She's still waiting on the bed when he returns, lying on her back, her legs together, her knees bent, her arms propping her up on her elbows. Danicka licks her lips.
LukasIt wasn't exactly a surprise that Danicka would have a box of toys like that. All the same, Lukas was red when they rose to the light of day; red when his mate explained just a few of them, red when she offered to play then and there, red when -- rather later -- she unpacked all her toys in the privacy of their den.
Red. But curious. Curious in this absurdly, quietly shy way: absurd because he is a Shadow Lord Ahroun closing in on his Athro rank, for god's sake. And yet that, too, was not exactly a surprise. He is also the one who had to pretend it was some sort of gag gift, some sort of joke,
when he gave himself to her on Christmas last year. When he gave her the cuffs he would wear, the ring he would wear, the blindfold-gag, the chains. Handed himself over to her in the same slightly red-faced, slightly shy way that he, a year later, appraised her secret storehouse of erotic wonders.
--
They played later. Because she found him in the closet. Because he was looking at the smooth, curved, orange-and-white thing. He was a little red again when she came upon him, but he met her eyes and smiled and made a joke that was really a gentle sort of request,
and so she made him a gentle offer,
and later on in bed he was very gentle with her, very careful, and almost comically intense in his concentration and his carefulness as he learned a whole new way to while away the hours with his mate.
--
That's the closet he goes to now. That's the box he takes down and opens, though of course first he made sure she knew he was coming back so she didn't just up and wander off to make herself a sandwich. She can hear him sifting through the objects, getting sidetracked on some clever little vibrator or other, coming upon the carefully packed manacles at last. The chain clinks softly on itself; that's how she knows he has it.
When he comes back she's laid out on the bed, waiting. Her knees are bent and she's laying back on her elbows. She licks her lips; almost without his noticing, he is biting his own lip. The lower one, caught there beneath his teeth as he looks at her.
The manacles dangle by their chain from his index finger. He approaches the bed. He is still wearing his boxer-briefs, which is the last article of clothing between the two of them. They are plain grey, more utilitarian than fashionable, though so fitted to his form that his arousal is impossible to miss. He climbs onto the bed, sliding his knees forward until he is very nearly straddling her shins. And then: lifting her legs over his thighs, opening her knees alongside his hips. He is very gentle about this. Stops at the faintest hint of resistance. She is so very bare, after all, and he feels so achingly protective of her vulnerability, imagined or real. He doesn't use the manacles straight away. He lays them on the bed, the pieces thumping softly with their own weight, and then he leans over her with his hands on the bed, meets her mouth yet again.
Kisses her like a reassurance. Like a reminder: that he is who he is, and she is who she is, and they are what they are to each other.
DanickaHe makes her so wet.
It's ridiculous, the things she finds about him that set her off. Some aren't so ridiculous: when he touches himself. Some are light lightning out of a blue sky: when his hair is a little long and in want of a trim, brushing over his forehead. When he pulls his shirt on, before the collar is down, before the buttons are done, when the cuffs are open: that first snap of it past his shoulders, settling onto his frame. The way he rolls onto his back when she gets out of bed before him, nudging him off of where he's held her through the night. Watching him shave.
It's ridiculous that when he was looking at all her toys for the first time, that menagerie of pleasure that was hiding underneath her bed all this time, and his skin was turning pink and then red as she told him I'll show you that one later and redder still as he tried to figure out just how that C-shaped thing would be used, his skin the color of flames when they came up on the little pink one and she asked him quietly if he wanted to see how to use it on her -- through all of this, he was just making her want him more. Even if she was teasing him a little at the end, she didn't tease him again at home. She waited, as though knowing
he would come to her.
He would, as it turned out, look over that gorgeous orange and white toy and consider the way it would look on her. Inside of her. In his hand. The sounds she'd make. The way she'd move. He would turn sudden colors when she came looking for him, but not scramble to put it away. He made some soft joke about it looking like a work of art, it could belong in a MoMA, which was just another way of saying that he thought it was beautiful. She made him an offer, tenderly, softly, telling him that when she saw him looking at it, it made her think of --
well. What he did then. Laying out beside her, licking her nipple, shushing her gently even as he was making her entire body squirm, watching so carefully so that he wouldn't harm her, wouldn't do anything but pleasure her.
Oh, but she was happy with him after that, kissing his face, smelling of her own sweat, of sex, running her hands over him in delight. She called him her beautiful boy, murmured his name over and over and over.
--
He almost gets out another this time. She doesn't know that, doesn't see it, but thinks about it: wonders if he's going to tie her down and really torment her, and her pulse quickens at the thought. A soft sound escapes her just before he steps out, carrying those pretty manacles. Her breasts move as she breathes, her eyes flicking down over his still somewhat clothed body. She looks at him with a sudden ache, a plea, her cunt clenching slightly at the thought that he might not let her play with it, he might not give it to her, and she's not sure she can bear it.
Danicka takes a breath as his weight dents the bed again. She watches him, fixated, as he opens her legs; she doesn't resist. This close he can smell her arousal; he can see the faintest flash of wetness along her lips. She can't take her eyes off of him. When he leans over her, his torso between her legs, she moans, lifting her hips toward him, arching her back to receive him, receive his kiss. Her arms wrap around him, hands burying themselves in his hair.
He's so careful. He's so worried.
She needs no reassurance.
LukasSometimes it's like they really are connected in some unseen, metaphysical way. Sometimes he swears he can feel the ache that bolts through her; feels it like a twist in his own heart. He feels so protective of her when they're like this. Always, really, but most of all when they're like this: when she's giving herself over so utterly, so fearlessly to him.
He can smell her arousal. He can smell her wetness, smell her sex; can all but taste her scent the way wolves do. He would know her even if he were blind and deaf. He would know her by taste, by scent, by touch,
by the softness of her thighs wrapped around him,
by the arching of her back when he kisses her.
Her arms wrap around him again. Her hands lose themselves in his hair, which -- yes -- is getting a little longish again. Thick and dark, coal-black: so prototypically Shadow Lord, sifting silken between her fingers. He makes this sound as her fingers comb through, this rough, low, muffled sound of pleasure and enjoyment against her mouth. The kiss goes on, unwinds in its own time, and as it begins to come to a close,
as her fingers slip out of his hair,
he takes her hands in his. He takes them so gently, his fingers lacing with hers, his palm warming hers even as he urges the backs of those hands gently to the mattress.
There's such tenderness in the way he holds her down like that. Such care and carefulness as he gathers her wrists in his, the kiss drawing apart, his eyes searching out hers as he reaches unseeingly for the manacles. My mate, he whispers to her, in one language and then the other, and then:
fur against her wrist. Fur against her wrist and then a buckle gently tightening, coming snug against her arm. His fingertips trace the chain. He flicks the second manacle over a rung on their simple, pretty little headboard; pulls it through the other way, fits it ever so lovingly around his mate's wrist.
There's something brilliant and hot in his eyes when he looks at her again. That hand that had held hers is wrapped now around the chain linking the manacles to each other, and to the bed. He tugs at it gently. He shifts over her. His hands run down her arms as he straightens, sits back on his heels again. There's enough space between them that she can see his face, see the focus and the intensity there, the arousal writ plain across that mobile mouth, those dark eyebrows.
A beat; almost a hesitation, as though she were too holy to touch -- and then he touches her after all. Cups her breasts in his hands, warms her nipples against his palm. Seeks and finds her eyes.
A variation on the game: "Tell me what you want."
DanickaSometimes she's the fearless one. But he knew that already, glimmers of it beneath the fearfulness that came so much easier to the surface: the way she came after him when she wanted him, climbing into his shower when he was washing off Spiral blood, the way she kissed him that first time. The way she would go so wild, so hatefully wild, til it drove him out of his mind. And right now, like this, she doesn't think she needs to be protected. She doesn't feel vulnerable or given over. She just feels hungry.
Danicka sees it in his eyes when he takes his mouth off of hers. She breathes, panting softly as he takes her hands in his, slides his palms to her wrists,
moves her wrists to the mattress. She arches then, even just held down, biting her lip, lifting her hips against him again in aching, in yearning. He begins to bind her then, buckling the manacles on her wrists so carefully that she whispers: "Tighter," til he draws it snug. He chains her to the bed, fixes the second cuff around her other wrist.
It turns her on that he holds onto the chain. It turns her on that her wrists are over her head now, her body laid out for him. She gives a soft, plaintive moan when he draws back from her, and her legs spread just a little more in welcome, in invitation, in pleading. But he hesitates. And even as his hand curves over her breast, feeling her hardened nipple in his palm, she's feeling him so careful, so worried, so tentative, and when he asks her to tell him what she wants, she shakes her head.
"I want you to not be so afraid. I trust you."
And this, also whispered, because she realizes that her trusting him may not be the problem, the question, the concern:
"Trust me, baby," she tells him, her eyes on his. "I want you. I want to make you feel good. And I won't let you do anything I don't want."
LukasTighter, she said as he bound her. The word carves through him. Makes his cock jump in his boxer-briefs. Makes his eyes flicker and flame.
He binds her tighter. She moans for him. She opens herself to him. He hesitates, and perhaps we should say now that it's not necessary for her to reassure him like this; it's not necessary for her to remind him that she trusts him. That he should trust her.
It is, though. It is necessary, because even now sometimes Lukas forgets. Even now, he is sometimes overshadowed by the memory of those dark days when they did not trust each other. When she did not think herself capable of love, let alone trust. When he did not think her capable of such things either, nor himself capable of trusting her in turn.
--
Love was always another question, for him. From the beginning, he saw that treacherous possibility. He feared it.
--
But that is a digression. The point: she reminds him. And yes: it is necessary. Yes, it does change the look in his eyes. Banishes some of the tentativeness, the worry; kindles the fire. He looks at her mouth, he looks at her body. He looks into her eyes and his lips part on a sip of an inhale, which he takes slowly because otherwise he will shudder.
He bows to her body, then. He cups her breasts to his mouth, reverently, and for a while all there is is his dark head bent to her fair skin; his mouth warm and lush on her nipple while his hands explore, stroke, smooth over every inch of skin he can reach.
All the way down to her hips. All the way down to her thighs, and then between them. His fingertips part her, explore her; and in this, at least, he has gained some ground in the years they have been together. There's something sure and certain about his touch. His two fingers slipping into her; his thumb stroking her clit. His tongue circling her nipple one more time before he lifts his head,
watches her,
he does so love to watch her.
DanickaLukas does not need to be so gentle, so careful. They haven't done this, just like this, for a very, very long time. Years. It makes sense that he's wary --
but he doesn't need to be. Danicka tells him tighter, and he binds her a little tighter. He lowers himself to her to lick her breast, slowly and gently, his hands moving over her. She is molten then, her skin as warm as though they were laying in front of a fire. Her eyes fall closed, her head relaxing on the bed as he helps himself to her skin. She comes loose from time, no longer flowing through it but with it, even when her mate touches her.
She exhales, the rush of air heady, intoxicated. Her brow tightens as his fingers slide into her, her eyes still closed as he lifts his head, taking his mouth from her nipple and leaving it cool and wet to the air.
"Fuck me," she whispers, as though speaking to that touch, rolling her hips slightly with the motion. "Fuck me."
LukasLukas laughs, low and quiet. He is held between her thighs. He is braced over her, so close that their torsos touch and meld; that his arm is a warm bar down the axis of her body where he reaches between her legs.
Those fingers of his stop when she asks him to fuck her. They stop, and he laughs, and then he dips his head to nip gently, playfully at her breast.
"With what?" he asks her. Deliberately infuriating, his hand strays away from her cunt. He touches her breast instead, rolling her nipple between thumb and forefinger, drawing it to hardness. "With my fingers?"
His head bows to her again. He licks that same nipple, a single long, slow stroke of the tongue. Lingers a moment, the flat of his tongue pressed heavily, quiveringly to her flesh. Then lifting, "With my mouth?"
A beat. His breath humid over her skin. Evaporating the wetness there. He kisses her again, right over her breastbone. He is smiling against her skin. She can feel it. She can feel it, too, when his hand drifts back down her body. Skims her skin all the way down to the waistband of his boxer-briefs, which he tugs down and aside to get his cock out. Quarters are close. It's inevitable that his knuckles brush her cunt, brush her thighs, as he strokes himself slow and steady and patient.
"Or," he whispers, his lips close to her ear, "did you mean my cock?"
DanickaShe's squirming. Her hips, her shoulderblades move on the sheets and among the rumpled bedding in a sinuous ache of motion. He stops fingering her, his hand slowing, but Danicka goes on rolling her hips, fucking his hand slowly, until he withdraws it. She winces, opening her eyes to look plaintively at him as he teases her breast instead.
"Please don't stop," she whispers, unable to concentrate on anything he's saying. She exhales, eyes closing yet again, as he starts licking her flavor off her nipple, tasting her. Danicka, as quietly as she can, gives a whimper. She doesn't see at first that he's reaching for his underwear, doesn't notice until she hears the fabric moving on his skin.
Her eyes snap open and her head lifts, watching him, staring down his body as he takes himself out. She licks her lips, aware but uncaring that she contradicts herself: "Let me suck it."
LukasLukas's eyes flick to Danicka's. This close the subtle patterns of the iris are visible; the threads of deeper blue amongst the pale.
"Say please."
Danicka"Prosím," she says, instantly, without holding back from him. She aches, yearning, arching her back and lifting herself toward his body. Her eyes find his, momentarily, dragging up his body. "Prosím, láska. Let me."
LukasUpon which Lukas all but pounces on her. Kisses her hard, almost viciously, his hands indenting the pillow on either side of her head. Kisses her for a long time, his body pressed to hers, his cock grinding shamelessly against her cunt.
When he pulls away her lips are red and his own feel raw. He reaches up and unsnaps manacles just long enough to unthread the chain from the bed. Then he pushes up, sits back on his heels, his boxer briefs stretched quite out of shape over his thighs. Her chain is in his hand. He tugs her toward him by it, holding his cock upright in his other hand.
"Slowly now," he cautions. "Don't be greedy or I'll take it away."
DanickaShe almost takes him. Her body is working on his, her pussy stroking his cock as he grinds on her, hips winding as though she's trying to take him inside of her without hands, without help. He kisses her so hard she whimpers into his mouth, and as soon as one cuff is unhooked from the chain she's reaching for him, wrapping her arms around him, putting her hands in his hair and kissing him back, following him as he sits up.
The first time they kissed she leapt up his body, climbed him like a tree; she was weaker then, thinner. She's quite a bit more athletic now, wrapping herself around him and leveraging his strength and her own to keep making out with him as he's tugging on the chain attached to one fur-lined manacle.
"God, you're so hot," she breathes, as he's pulling on that chain, tugging one hand away from his hair. She groans quietly, in protest, clinging to him, kissing his mouth again.
LukasHe welcomes her. Whatever he does after this, whatever role he plays and whatever mask he dons, this is the truth: he welcomes her. She flings her arm around him and follows him up and kisses him, mauls his face, buries her hands in his hair.
He welcomes her. His arm wraps tight around her. His mouth opens to her. He kisses her back, groaning deep in the chest, pulling her closer still until her legs hug his sides as tightly as her arm hugs his shoulders.
And then: he yanks one hand from his hair. Then the other: his hand around her wrist, pulling her hand down, muscling it behind her back, wrapping that furlined manacle around it and cinching it tight. The chain he wraps around his own fist, three times to shorten it, and then it's his hand in her hair, his hand pulling her head back firmly.
"And you're so disobedient," he retorts, a moment before
he picks her up, he gets off the bed, he dumps her face-down back onto the bed. Over the edge of the bed, actually. It's quite physical, that. A lot of lifting and turning and slamming and shoving; a controlled force so forceful it doesn't quite feel controlled at all. His chain-wrapped hand is the one on her back, the cool metal a counterpoint to the heat of his palm and his fingers around it. He holds her down.
"Open your legs."
DanickaBrutally, almost, he cuffs her again; links those manacles together by the chain and then winding the chain around his hand. She pants a breath, a gasp, urging him on with her hips even though there's a flash of bright light in her eyes when he pulls her head back.
It's a flash, an indication of a line coming closer than it was before, but she doesn't tell him red. She does whisper, a heartbeat later: "Yellow, baby," because she doesn't want him to stop. She kisses him after that, if his hand relents a bit, if he loosens his grip, if he lets her.
She can't imagine he won't let her kiss him right then.
She doesn't want him to stop.
So Lukas picks her up, but he puts her back down. And perhaps when he's hesitating to turn her, if he does, she whispers green to let him know this is okay, this turns her on, this is good, yes, and she likes being bent over the bed like this, it makes her shudder. She closes her eyes, deliriously.
Her legs spread apart.
LukasYellow.
His hand does relent. Almost immediately. He does know the difference between green and yellow, yellow and red. He doesn't stop everything. He doesn't untie her, wrap himself around her, howl in distress.
He loosens his hand. She kisses him. He kisses her back, eyes closed, adoration and gentle apology mingling in that moment.
In the next they are playing again. He's picking her up and surging off the bed. Against that sort of strength even gravity must quail. She lifts like she weighs nothing at all, turns, and then he's putting her down and, yes, there's that half-beat of hesitation, and she says green, and gratitude and lust flash in his eyes. In a strange way he's glad that she called yellow. Glad not just because she would do that, they were playing safely, but also because: there's the line. He knows it now, at least one border of this strange, sexual landscape they're in. He whips her around and bends her over that big, soft bed of theirs.
She closes her eyes.
She opens her legs.
He drops to his knees behind her; he thinks she must be expecting to get fucked now, she must be expecting him to shove it into her and hammer her against the side of the bed -- hands on her hips, head flung back. So this instead: his knees pressing against the insides of her ankles. His hand holding her chain, and his other hand spreading her open. His mouth on her cunt, ferociously, almost too much, lapping as greedily at her clit as he'd warned her against. The tip of his nose tracing over her slit, and then his mouth there too, his face pushed against her pussy, every last sense suffused with her. He's growling, he likes it so much.
DanickaThe first time that Danicka bent over the bed for him, Lukas about lost his mind. He got up from her bed and stood behind her and buried himself in her for a few pulsing, yearning seconds before drawing out again and doing exactly what he does now: getting to his knees, putting his face to her pussy, and licking her with all the hunger he might have fucked her with. She bucks on the bed, biting into the bedspread to muffle her cries. Lukas isn't gentle about the way he makes love to her with his mouth; she isn't any more gentle in the way she fucks back against him, grinding against his lips, his tongue.
"Sh-shh," she tries to shush him, even though her own voice isn't much more controlled. "You're --"
Danicka never finishes that sentence. She buries her face in the bedspread, moaning, rubbing her clit against his tongue.
LukasHe does not shh. He does not stop, either. It only turns him on more, the way she rubs herself against him. The way she turns her face to the mattress and buries her moans there. Something about the very sound of it, those muffled cries, sets him right off. He has one hand firm at the small of her back, gripping the chain and holding her steady. He has the other on his cock, stroking himself off every bit as uninhibitedly and shamelessly
as he's eating her out. As he's quite simply devouring that pussy, fucks her with lips and tongue and mouth, flicking his tongue over her and into her and up one side and down the other and circling now, slithering, sliding, lapping at her like a beast at water.
He can't even keep stroking. After a while he just holds his cock in his hand, holds himself pulsing and jerking in his palm because otherwise he'll just come right there. Making a fucking mess that, when the madness passes, they'll have to clean up with bleach and carpet cleaner and all that,
like normal, boring people.
DanickaIt's not all right if he comes before she's had a chance at him. She'd tell him that if she could form a coherent thought. She'd tell him to stop playing with it, it's hers, he's hers, but she is busy being bent over a bed, getting her pussy eaten, all but screaming into her mattress, convinced that next time they play like this they cannot do it at home, god, but her legs are spreading wider and she's moaning this tight, short rhythm of pleasure, working herself up towards orgasm,
if he gives her that.
LukasDoes he give her that?
Should he give her that? One must admit the question is in his mind. There's a devil on his shoulder whispering no; telling him to stop, stop when she's writhing, stop when she's moaning, stop when those sounds she's making start winding tighter and higher; stop when she's so wet he can feel it slicking down her thighs, slicking down his chin. Stop.
Well, say this much for Lukas: he's more often guided by the angels of his better nature. And he wants to pleasure his wife-mate, he really does; he doesn't want to leave her hanging a breath from climax, swearing at him. He doesn't want to. And so he doesn't. He puts his hands on her body. He spreads her delicately, or as delicately as he can when she's bucking and grinding and he has to hold her still, at least a little bit still, so he can put his mouth on her. He puts his mouth on her, and he holds fast, he follows her, he sucks at her clit, he eats at her cunt, he fucks her with his mouth until he feels her tensing, tautening, coiling in on herself.
The moment she starts to come,
he stops. He pulls away, panting, one hand still wrapped tight around those chains as he wipes his mouth messily with the other. He watches her. He's fixated on her: watching that cunt of hers, the glisten of her wetness, the way she pulses. She can hear him groan softly to himself if she's listening to anything at all. She can hear him murmuring at the sight of her,
what a beautiful cunt, so fucking wet, tastes so good, yes.
He doesn't touch her, though. Not a stroke, not a lick, not a single caress. Not until that orgasm has had its way with her and let her go again.
DanickaShe's going to kill him. She's going to literally fucking kill him. You don't do that to her. She's not a true submissive; she's the woman who rode him when he could barely stand it. She has, on at least one occasion, snarled at him as he started to come and told him me first. His job is to make her come. His responsibility to her is to give it to her when she wants it, to submit himself to the task of her orgasm. They should have put it in their vows: he should have promised in front of the judge to her, oathed himself to pleasuring her at his every opportunity and her every whim.
And he knows all too well how to take care of her. He knows all too well that if he leaves her a breath from orgasm that not only is she furious and frustrated, it takes twice, three times as long to get her to that point again. No wonder she sometimes refuses to let him fall asleep after they have sex; not if she still wants him. Not if she still needs that lovely hard cock of his. He knows the score. He knows how it's done and what is expected of him.
After all. It's his job..
--
Lukas doesn't withdraw. He hears her moaning into the bedding, biting at the duvet, working herself against his hand and his tongue, rubbing her clit achingly on him, well past the point of thinking about how she looks or how she sounds or what he's thinking and just needing it, needing it,
panting in harsh gasps as it overtakes her, as it tips her forward into madness. She rubs herself against the mattress, grinding, and Lukas
draws
away.
She moans, helplessly, a little too loudly, as her orgasm keeps taking her. Her legs close, her thighs rubbing together and against herself, working her body through that orgasm, thinking she's going to kill him, she's going to kill him, he's awful, he's the worst, if he doesn't fuck her soon she's going to kick him out of the house, she's going to kill him.
Danicka turns her face into a discarded pillow, moaning again, almost wailing. She squirms a few more times, rubbing herself against a bit of the duvet she's worked between her thighs to rub herself off against. Her tongue slips over her lips; she starts to relax, to relent, whimpering
yet again.
LukasOh, he knows the score. He knows what is expected of him; knew it from quite early on when he came first and she didn't stop. He knows he's here to pleasure her, he's here to get her off, that's what he's for. Him and his muscles and his hard cock: they're not for fighting for Gaia or even breeding for Gaia, even though he's done both rather admirably. They are, quite simply,
for getting his mate off.
That's the deal. That's what's between the lines of their marriage contract. That's what was between the lines of her offering herself to him like this, even: manacles, chains, get her off. Sign on the dotted sign.
He doesn't quite hold up his end of the bargain. Worse, he rather deliberately sabotages it. Stops, lets her work that orgasm out herself. Sits back on his heels and watches her, stroking himself again; watches her with his eyes hooded and hot, his lips parted, his breath shallow. Watching her as she writhes through it, squirms through it, starts to relent at last.
Laughs. He laughs. And he leans forward and he kisses her tenderly on the swell of her ass. Kisses her tenderly, even, where she's wet and hot and still-pulsing from her climax. "I'm sorry, baby," he whispers. Such penitence. Such regret. Such laughter still underlining every word, fuzzing the edges. "That was so very unkind of me. How can I make it up to you?"
He rubs her wrists through those manacles. He plays with the chain, lifting it, letting it pour link by link onto her back.
"Do you want to chain me up instead?"
DanickaDanicka is loose-limbed and molten now, sweating at the small of her back and her temples. She shivers when he comes closer, kissing her ass the way he does. She wants him to lap her up, lick every drop up, make her come again. She wants him to rub himself against her ass until he comes. She wants. She wants. She has been reduced to want, to lust. Even the way he tells her he's sorry only makes her... well.
Hornier.
She licks her lips, panting still against the duvet. Her lips are wet, her eyes opening as she twists to look at him, hooded and heated. "I want your cock."
LukasLukas is on his knees when Danicka twists to look at him. He is sitting back on his heels, the great muscles of the thigh relaxed but taut, the abdominals bunched in stark relief because of the curve of his spine. Now and then, a flicker of contraction across the chest, the shoulder, the arm: because he is, quite frankly, stroking himself. Occasional, light, sure slides of the palm and the fingers while his eyes meet hers. While his eyes go to her wet lips. The tip of her tongue gliding across and vanishing.
He stands up. All in a motion, simply unfolding from that crouch without the benefit of a hand to the floor. A crueler man, a true dominant faced with a true submissive, might well haul her up off the bed by the shackles. He doesn't. He wraps that free arm under her waist and he lifts her, he picks her up as swiftly and certainly as he ever has. When she straightens he finds her mouth, or she finds his, or -- it hardly matters. Shocking and hungry, that kiss snarls out between them, shared over her shoulder. Then her feet touch the ground.
He spins her around. A hand on her shoulder urges her down: kneeling or sitting, he doesn't care. Her back to the bed, though. His feet stepping forward, his body drawing close to hers. His hand on his cock still, holding it away from her, back from her, until she's situated. Until she looks up at him, wanting. Until he's ready
to guide it against her lips. There's such intensity, such focus in his eyes that the blue is nearly gone; the black is endless. He is breathing in slow, measured sips.
"Slowly," he whispers. Which he would have earlier too, but -- this time it's because he's already so close, and he wants to save it. He wants to save this hard-on, he wants to save this orgasm, he wants to save his cock for her cunt so he can fuck her good and proper on the bed. Call him old-fashioned.
DanickaHe could have her, if he wants. Just like this, wrists chained but not too tightly or painfully behind her back, face against the bedding, body bent over their matrimonial bed. He could, and he considers it. He is so close to his own edge, touching himself mindlessly, and she can see the lust flickering in his eyes like lightning, and she remembers a time when she could not tell the difference in that lightning between arousal and rage. She licks her lips again, staring at him, some subtle (or not very subtle at all) reminder of what she's been asking for since they were alone together in the back of another taxi.
His cock.
In her mouth.
can't wait, is what she said. And as it turns out, she's been remarkably patient.
--
Moments later he has her up, sitting on the edge of the bed, his underwear still stretched over his thighs. Those wet lips are reddened from his kiss, her eyes limpid. She looks at him with something like worship, but he must know it isn't that; lust takes on that edge sometimes, that's all. It looks like adoration. It's why so many people get the two so confused. But she does adore him; she does want him, and this, more than she can bear.
Slowly, he insists, and she pants out a soft laugh, the air coiling warm and ticklish across his flesh. She leans toward him, opening her mouth, taking him slowly inside. Her eyes close with pleasure as she gives him that first, achingly slow slide of her mouth, but as she withdraws, she does the unthinkable and takes her tongue entirely from him, opening her eyes and looking up at him again. His cock rests on her lips, but that doesn't stop her from speaking, whispering to him.
"I'll go slow," she promises, murmuring against him before pressing her lips to the underside of his dick. "I'll go nice and slow for you, baby," comes another whisper, before the flat of her tongue tastes him from hilt to tip. She engulfs him again, shivering as she sinks him into her mouth, moaning softly around him, the vibration of sound making her lips tremor softly on his skin. She withdraws after that second long, slow suck. "So fucking slow," she whispers, kissing him again and again, flicking her wet tongue out here and there to taste him.
Danicka[dex + linguistics]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 3, 4, 8) ( fail )
Lukas[soak!]
Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 7, 10) ( success x 3 ) [WP]
LukasFor a moment there Lukas quite forgets his role. He forgets just about everything; everything but the way she's looking at him, and the way she whispers those dirty little promises to him, and the way
her mouth
moves on him.
He doesn't hold his cock for her. He doesn't hold her head, he doesn't stroke himself off. None of it. His hands are lax at his sides, the fingertips twitching ever so slightly as errant nerve-impulses rocket up and down his spine. She kisses him and he shivers. She licks him like that, base to head, and his head falls back. She takes him in her mouth and he groans aloud, shifting his stance a little wider so he doesn't fall; lowering his head to watch her, rapt, as she takes him in.
And slides him out. She's kissing him again then, flicking her tongue, pressing her lips. He's unbelievably hard, his heartbeat palpable. He does slip his fingers into her hair, then. He does take his cock in hand to bring the tip back to her lips. There are no finer graces here. No manners, no pleases and thank yous, not thought at all. He feeds her his cock, plain and simple.
His head falls back again. He murmurs, low and rough and wordless, if she takes him into her mouth a second time.
DanickaDanicka has grown very talented when it comes to Lukas's cock. No one knows it better. She smiles to herself mid-kiss as his head falls back and he groans. She knows what it means when he shifts his stance like that, because she's seen him do it before, and that only intensifies her anticipation. She wonders how much farther she will need to push him before he cannot stand it anymore and just fucks her, burying himself in her again and again and again, sweating and panting atop her.
She thinks: not very much farther, now.
So she sighs softly, plaintively, achingly, licking him again, and even as he's trying to guide her she's taking him, fully intended on not teasing him anymore. She sucks on him now, slowly because if she starts off as hungry as she is he'll make her stop. So she starts very slowly, wet and grateful, licking him within the warm confines of her mouth, and starts to well and truly blow her husband.
Danicka[I GET TO ROLL AGAIN]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 3, 6, 10) ( success x 1 ) [WP]
Lukas[soak!]
Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 7, 7) ( success x 2 )
Danicka[ADDENDUM]
Of course, as said: she knows her husband. She knows his cock. She knows what he likes, and where all his weak soft spots are. And the truth is... after a few seconds, she's not even thinking about winning some coy game she's playing with herself anymore. She's just so intent on this. She's just so into it after a while that when she starts going faster, it's not because she's trying to conquer him. She isn't even thinking about making him come. She's just
so
into it. The way he's panting, and the way he rocks his weight forward a little, the half-caught groans, the very feel of hiim in her mouth. Put aside all the jokes and all the things you've heard; what is true for one woman is not true for all of them, and Danicka loves this. At least with him. At least like this. She fucking loves it, and by the time she's groaning around him, fucking him with her mouth, looking up at him from where she sits on the edge of the bed, she has forgotten entirely why he ever wanted her to go slow.
LukasThey've both forgotten. They're both so into it. She's fucking him with her mouth and he's lost in the moment. He's rocking his hips in counterpoint to the slide of her lips, the glide of her tongue, his hand slipping from her hair to fall forgotten at his side again.
From her vantage point he's a symphony of motion over her, a complex, colossal interplay of muscle and bone, from the flex of the abdominals to the shiver of the pectorals, the tightness across the shoulders, the clenching of the fists -- all of it bent to one purpose, to the one inarguable goal of pleasure. His eyes are closed as she works him up. She's right, she does know him. She knows just how to make him lose his mind. She knows just how to wring those low, caught groans from him,
just how to make shudders run all the way down his back,
just how to make his breathing unsteady and fast, make his cock jerk in her mouth, make him lower his head and put his hand on her face and open his eyes with that look in his eyes, that lost, overcome look, like she's taken his very mind from him and he can only regain it again if she brings him off. Makes him come. Sucks him off just like this,
eyes closing, brow furrowing, hand tightening in her hair despite his best intentions as his orgasm overtakes him.
Sometimes he shouts when he comes. Sometimes he roars. Right now, he just gasps: gasps and pants and grunts, shuddering, thrusting into her mouth. She keeps him there, caught in the hurricane's eye; draws it out until he's quite literally unsteady on his feet, jerking all over every time she licks or sucks, pulls himself from her mouth because otherwise his knees will unhinge. His mind will unhinge.
His fingers loosen in her hair. He strokes her hair back gently, lovingly, perhaps a touch apologetically. The strands are loose and golden between his fingers. He bends to her. He kisses her, deep and full and unashamed.
DanickaIt's when he bends over her, looking at her like that, his eyes open and his hands touching her face and his expression saying please, baby, please like he's forgotten what he's even asking for, only that he'll die if she denies him. And she would not deny him. Not now. After all: isn't it Christmas soon?
Her hands are still locked behind her. She uses only her mouth on him, looking up at him with something a touch darker than adoration, a bit more heated. If she were speaking she would be saying the filthiest things, telling him to fuck her, fuck her, telling him how fucking good he is, but there is only her tongue, only her gaze.
He is lost.
He is hers.
--
Danicka moans when he comes, that first jerk, that shuddering gasp that grabs him. She stays with him, because she does this sometimes, though she has not in a very long time. She relaxes and allows him to thrust a bit, lets him come, lets him have his orgasm until it is done with him, and she swallows thickly, pants out a breath when he withdraws, shakily. She pants a bit, watching him, not quite comprehending the apology in his eyes, and closes her own when he kisses her. She kisses him back.
LukasSoon enough, before that kiss has even played itself out, Danicka feels herself lifted again. Gathered in the large arms of her mate and picked up off the floor, lifted against his body slick with sweat and still a little shiverous from pleasure.
When the kiss tapers off his brow is to hers. His eyes open and he rolls their foreheads gently, affectionately together. He kisses her again, open-eyed, softer.
Then his knees on the bed, walking them over to the center where he lays her down. On her side, first, because he undoes one of the manacles again so she can get her hands from behind herself. That manacle is not immediately reasserted around her wrist, either. Lukas stretches out beside his mate as she rolls onto her back, head propped on fist, his hand coming to stroke over her stomach, drifting up to palm her breast.
"I told you to go slow," he says, gently mock-reproachful. The empty manacle lolls against her side. He picks it up and tosses it thoughtlessly to her other side, moves closer to her until their bodies are aligned and touching.
DanickaShe has to trust him so much, with her arms bound like this. Especially when he lifts her. And she breathes in sharply, thinking his legs might collapse underneath him -- and it would not be the first time, however rare it is. She spreads her knees to either side of his waist as he holds her up, kissing her, and nuzzles him when he rolls his forehead on hers, smiles as he kisses her.
Lukas takes them to bed, unfastening one cuff, and she wonders if they are done playing entirely and realizes... that would be okay. It really, really would. She smiles, laying on her side to face him, never rolling away. She wants to be close. She wants to see him. She wants to go use some mouthwash too, but that can wait a while.
He's so nice when he's like this. Right after, when sleep doesn't immediately drag him down. When he isn't inside of her and holding her so tightly, unable to move because he can't bear to be parted. He's so languid. So affectionate in the way he touches her, slow and soft and thoughtful and appreciative. His hand moves over her breast. She scoots closer and then, finally, shifts onto her back with her head tucked against his bicep, looking up at his jawline as he holds her tit in his palm.
It feels nice.
"I did," she whispers back, smiling. "At first."
The cuffs attach with D-rings to the chain. It can be shortened; it's very modular. Quite nice. So the black and white cuffs stay on her wrists, even if they are disconnected, even if one trails a chain, and she wraps her arms around him as he comes closer, recognizing in his movement what he wants. She kisses him, softly, unafraid, and presses her body against his, arms looped around his neck.
