I hope you're aware that writing smut that has Rina in it makes me feel dirty and wrong. XD Also, ilu2 omggg and feel free to give me more. :D
1. "Gonna hurt you," she warns, gruff and brief, but Stock shrugs, halfway out of his shirt already.
"You can't wound me in any way that you haven't already tried with words," he says grandly.
He finds later that this isn't necessarily true; her fingernails rake down his back when he thrusts into her for the first time, all his preparation for naught, and the welts she leaves are still burning the next day. But he doesn't dwell on it. Making love to Zara is poetry, albeit angry poetry, and, besides, he made her harsh voice crack, made her cling to him for just a handful of seconds, breathless and sobbing his name.
2. "This is not," Florian says, "the legacy I wanted to leave you with." The way his hands move across bare skin has a startling intensity to it, unexpectedly direct, and frank in its desire.
Stock grins. "I'll leave it out of the poem."
Florian smiles, and he feels the rush of warmth go over him, so thorough and deep that he climaxes before Florian's loquacious hands ever finish with him.
3. It was prophetic, he thinks, that Florian always called her the golden divinity, because he knows she's goddesslike, more than human. Things get jumbled up in his head sometimes, blurred and melted together like hot tar on shoe soles, tugging down his footsteps; still he knows that she's more than human, shining luminously from amidst the other things. Sometimes when he has her in his lap, teasing his cock with her small hands, flushed and laughing and her hair tumbled around her face, the cold, bitter memories of blood and blood and blood try to creep up on him, pooling around his ankles. She pushes them back. Her golden divinity casts away everything else, and he loses all sense of reality in her touches -- his body answers, but he might as well be miles away.
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1. "Gonna hurt you," she warns, gruff and brief, but Stock shrugs, halfway out of his shirt already.
"You can't wound me in any way that you haven't already tried with words," he says grandly.
He finds later that this isn't necessarily true; her fingernails rake down his back when he thrusts into her for the first time, all his preparation for naught, and the welts she leaves are still burning the next day. But he doesn't dwell on it. Making love to Zara is poetry, albeit angry poetry, and, besides, he made her harsh voice crack, made her cling to him for just a handful of seconds, breathless and sobbing his name.
2. "This is not," Florian says, "the legacy I wanted to leave you with." The way his hands move across bare skin has a startling intensity to it, unexpectedly direct, and frank in its desire.
Stock grins. "I'll leave it out of the poem."
Florian smiles, and he feels the rush of warmth go over him, so thorough and deep that he climaxes before Florian's loquacious hands ever finish with him.
3. It was prophetic, he thinks, that Florian always called her the golden divinity, because he knows she's goddesslike, more than human. Things get jumbled up in his head sometimes, blurred and melted together like hot tar on shoe soles, tugging down his footsteps; still he knows that she's more than human, shining luminously from amidst the other things. Sometimes when he has her in his lap, teasing his cock with her small hands, flushed and laughing and her hair tumbled around her face, the cold, bitter memories of blood and blood and blood try to creep up on him, pooling around his ankles. She pushes them back. Her golden divinity casts away everything else, and he loses all sense of reality in her touches -- his body answers, but he might as well be miles away.