[ If they go now, the tent'll be empty. Her hand on his shoulder, that little bounce of pressure and release – he wants, at once, to know the weight of it on skin. The way muscle stretches under sleeve, the swirl of skirt and breeze,
His thigh brushes the space between hers, teeth grazing air before chin cants and lips press to jaw; light as the lap of tongue beneath.
It'll wait. There's always more war. Only so much this. ]
sorry I still want this thread even though I don't have a kissing icon
(She smiles into it in the same moment it takes his teeth to touch air because she can tell it's coming. Her hand on his shoulder tightens then releases, a pulse, and she drags it over metal without looking, searching for skin. The warmth of his neck. She fits her thumb in there near his jaw and tilts his head to bring his mouth over, up some. Not a stranger to knowing what she wants — more than a peck on the cheek.
Her hand doesn't move, as if unsure he'll stay there without direction.
His skin is sweaty from the training and he tastes a little of it, like he's been panting. Gela is dimly aware that he'll feel the scar on her upper lip, thick.
That's fine. He can feel it.)
im throwing half a draft i found before i write you a new thing at some point
[ A surprised little sound, pleased and eager and questing for the shape of her tongue. There's a hand on his neck, direction, and there's another in the small of her back, hitching into her. Motion dips between braced hand and hunger.
It's been a while. Necking it with some sad mercenary – well, you can live on bread and water. It's nothing for the taste of salt, a little sweetness between them; iron where he nips at a lip. (To wonder what must have once split it)
To draw up for air is, ]
Maker,
[ He isn't thinking about the Maker right now. There's only one thing on his mind: Written in hazy eyes and thumping pulse. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
it's been a thousand years dot jpg, pls feel free to drop or handwave whatever as works 4 u
[ If they go now, the tent'll be empty. Her hand on his shoulder, that little bounce of pressure and release – he wants, at once, to know the weight of it on skin. The way muscle stretches under sleeve, the swirl of skirt and breeze,
His thigh brushes the space between hers, teeth grazing air before chin cants and lips press to jaw; light as the lap of tongue beneath.
It'll wait. There's always more war. Only so much this. ]
sorry I still want this thread even though I don't have a kissing icon
Her hand doesn't move, as if unsure he'll stay there without direction.
His skin is sweaty from the training and he tastes a little of it, like he's been panting. Gela is dimly aware that he'll feel the scar on her upper lip, thick.
That's fine. He can feel it.)
im throwing half a draft i found before i write you a new thing at some point
It's been a while. Necking it with some sad mercenary – well, you can live on bread and water. It's nothing for the taste of salt, a little sweetness between them; iron where he nips at a lip. (To wonder what must have once split it)
To draw up for air is, ]
Maker,
[ He isn't thinking about the Maker right now. There's only one thing on his mind: Written in hazy eyes and thumping pulse. ]