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[volkarin]

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[volkarin]

[ The first few times she'd reached into his head, it had felt— not strange, necessarily, but certainly new. A flicker of light, of a timbre and color he'd never seen before. Exposure has made it more familiar, as has the experience of being brought into his own mind — not so far removed, ultimately, from getting used to cohabitation. He never asks if it makes a difference, but he does his best to be conscious of keeping his mind open, pliant, like a well-loved book rather than one with a stiff, cracking spine, for her to peruse as she pleases.

He laughs as the image of her blooms in his vision, the sound fizzling into a hum against her lips. The ways in which he wants her are increasingly transparent, visible in how eager he is to kneel for her, to devote himself to the lessons she sets for him, and most explicitly in the letters he writes to her, hard evidence of a seemingly endless love. He's thinking of her, always, compelled rather than burdened by the promises he's made to her of a life beyond this.

There are images, under fine silt rather than layers of sediment, of the Lighthouse in the Fade, of Nevarra, the Grand Necropolis, each place altered just so to accommodate the newness of her.

And now, simply, ] Yes, mistress.

[ His hands urge her upward as he pushes himself down the length of the bed, his mouth finding her knee, her thigh, the soft skin between her legs — halfway, already, to fulfilling the first fantasy she'd planted in his head. ]

[multiverse]

( parisa has sat through a decent number of symphonies that barely hold a flicker of a flame to the pleasure found in emmrich's laugh, particularly when it's pressed up against her, like some secret etched in the threads of her skin. it makes her smile back, generously adoring. still, she goes as she's moved to, pressing her knees in the space beside his head, satisfaction curling up her spine when she sits, feeling the fresh shaven parts of his cheeks brush up against her inner thighs. the only time she has any height on emmrich is when he's horizontal, and she enjoys the view, trailing the tip of one finger down his dignified nose to end with a gesturing flick against her clit. )

My, aren't you sweet? ( such politeness from a man between her legs, what novelty. parisa can't help smiling at him, her unbrushed, static-y hair falling over her shoulders in loose waves as she arches over him, settling her cunt on his mouth with a breathy ) Oh.

( what is so lovely about older lovers — they don't need instruction. there's no mentor part parisa could play that could teach emmrich anything he doesn't already know, which is most of the fun of the role to begin with. she has a real substitute teacher vibe to encouraging him, arching her back and finding his hand at her hip, threading their fingers together. she loves to touch him, partly because she never has any doubt he wants her to. you don't have to be a telepath to see that emmrich is written in the old storybook way, one of arthur's most chivalrous, most romantic knights. gawain, she thinks. most definitely.

rocking down on him, a full body shiver courses through her, hand flexing in his. she's careful with her weight, keeping it on her knees instead of his chin, but it's clear she's still antsy, still hungry for it. ) Don't tease. ( parisa whines, because she knows what the most chivalrous, most righteous, most romantic thing to do is. give the knight a maiden who needs, let him be the hero of parisa's orgasms. he already is. )

[volkarin]

[ That her natural inclination is to run — an instinct born from the dark nooks and crannies of her mind, impossible for him to navigate without her guidance — doesn't make her any more difficult to love. They're a perfect match, in that way; not the sun chasing the moon across the sky, but the loving pull of the moon and the tides. Ever reacting to each other, ever in sync.

As their fingers intertwine, he sighs, breath cool against the wet part of her legs, the ghost of sensation followed in the next moment by the press of his tongue, licking a slow stripe along the folds of her cunt. But he's never been one not to follow instruction. Don't tease, she says, and so he doesn't, his mouth chasing the taste of her, each twitch and shudder of her body. Below, his cock twitches, hard against the plane of his stomach, a clear sign of desire that would be difficult to ignore if not for the fact of her. His pleasure is in watching her, catching and filing away the way her sweet lips part, the way her face flushes — the proclivity of a former teacher's pet, aware of each point of sensation, from the silk of his robe caught between his arm and her back to the brush of his carefully combed mustache against her pink flesh.

The only shame is that his tongue is too occupied to tell her just how beautiful he finds her. Granted, the soft moan that echoes in his throat gets most of the point across, half-formed and pliant, undone to a degree only she's ever allowed to see. She's so lovely — she'll always be lovely to him. ]