hades/persephone dream thread - duplicity

[unabatedly]

from here

Ereuvir:
It becomes very clear, though perhaps only slowly, that he is driving her deliberately closer and closer to the brink. He's taking his time with it, no hurry, though he will go easily and smoothly wherever she sees fit to move him. When she isn't, though, when she's holding back or trying to hold herself still, he's relentless about his own pleasure in this, which seems to be to taste as much as possible of her. He clearly prefers his tongue over his teeth, the better to savor the textures of her, but wherever it seems to drive her the most crazy, he'll easily nibble just a little bit, graze his teeth maybe a little less gently, soothe that space with his tongue a moment later.

Still, he's definitely ramping up the intensity, not so much trying to get her to come as trying to get her to chase for it, push him to the right places. Each time she does, she discovers he is unsurprisingly relentless, until there's really nothing to do but surrender to the inevitable.


Neria:
She isn't certain what to make of it all, the way he practically traps her in her own pleasure. Guiding him will get her what she wishes but drawn out, savored; letting him do what he wants nets her the most pleasure, though not always precisely at the focal points. He's goading her sweetly and taking what he wants, and Neria does her best to stave herself off only because she wants to feel what he wants, wants to lose herself in the sensation of denial, but even that is a game she doesn't want to waste too much time on.

No, eventually, she's meeting him halfway, going after her own pleasure once she can't stand it any longer, when her breaths are coming quickly, hitched in her chest. Her fingers, once content to drag through long tresses of his hair and to cradle and caress the back of his head, do more to coax him to the places where she knows she'll come undone. She feels the coil of pleasure rise up through her legs, leave her quivering. Practically bowing over him, she comes with a quiet cry that is for his ears alone, swallowed up in the utter silence of the wood around them...save for the faint rasp of her own breath.

She doesn't buckle, surprisingly, but her grip is tight on his shoulders to keep her balance while she rides out her orgasm, keeping him there for just a few moments longer before she loosens her hold.


Ereuvir:
He returns each quiet noise with one of his own, encouraging moans and soft sounds, like he's coaxing her to it rather than the relentless force he's actually displaying, once she meets him there. It turns to a purring, pleased noise as she shakes through her orgasm above and around him and he keeps teasing at her through it, until she's shuddering a bit with it afterwards.

He tips her over a moment later, the fall controlled though it may not seem to be. She lands in his cloak, not in the snow, and while there's no residual body warmth to soak up, she'll find it's plenty thick enough to keep her from the cold, that it warms to her own heat and touch. She's not liable to spend too much time considering it, though, because Ereuvir follows her, leaves her bereft only in that he takes a moment to look down at her, expression still hungry. He licks his lips, not quite showy but a lot more like an animal, deliberate, and then he grips her dress at the tear he'd already made and rips the entire thing open, almost casually. They are gods. It can be mended.

It's more important for him to get his mouth on the rest of her, a heated trail up that starts where he was previously and trails up over her belly, teeth scraping more frequently now as he works up her body.

"You're warm," is what it sounds like against her skin, a better compliment than one to her beauty. They are gods. They are all beautiful.


Neria:
She half tips over and half falls right into the open arms of his cloak, which cradles her as Ereuvir climbs up and tears the rest of her dress open. There's a momentary shift, not a flinch but something else that's caught like surprise, and then he comes down to her, starts to roam over the rest of her body. Neria tries to hold still, really she does, but the scrape of his teeth over exposed flesh draws up goosebumps, makes her shiver with anticipation and desire and excitement. With something that could be taken for a laugh, her fingers weave into his hair, over the back of his neck, and any piece of clothing he's still wearing that she can reach, she's trying to nudge it off or open so she can at least touch more of him now.

"You say that like you've never touched anything warm in all your days," she murmurs, giving him a long look from beneath her lashes. Her fingers find the little catches of muscle over his shoulders, his back, and it's here that the warmth feels like it spreads outwards. Surely that can't be right - she's a goddess of spring, not of warmth - but it feels like sunlight over his skin as he drags his mouth further, further up.

When at last he's close enough, Neria is reaching to draw him down so she can kiss him, to drag her teeth over his lips and nip at them. Her hands go exploring again, down his sides, his ribs, like she's trying to map out a world just by touch alone. He is cool to the touch but never cold and she presses to him like she might look for shade on a hot summer day. Her mouth falls to his jaw, sampling there with a smile.

Comments

[unabatedly]

She holds onto him like he's the one who's warm, or maybe the friction is just too delicious to let go, but she opens herself more for him when he hooks his hand around the back of her leg. The exhale that shudders through her carries her voice, giving her the cue to turn her head and look at him, to truly look at him. He's right there, face dipped close enough that she could just cant her head and bridge the gap to kiss him. She doesn't.

Instead, her eyes lock onto his own and remain there. She doesn't search his gaze for anything, though Neria drinks in the color of his eyes and the roll of desire in his frame that feels like it's ricocheting between them. Seconds tick by and she just smiles, turning her head to kiss him with a tenderness that isn't completely fitting for the moment, an arm wrapping around his shoulders to keep him there with her. It's not enough to pull him or to offset the balance he has with his arm propping him up, but it's enough for her to press her fingers into his hair and to drag her fingers along his scalp as her kiss grows heated and needy, just shy of desperate as he continues to press into her.

She arches her hips to meet him, giving as good as she gets, enjoying the back and forth of movement and reveling in every moment of it. Rather than come up for air - she doesn't need it, neither does he - she parts only to exhale when their hips meet, her body tightening. And then she kisses him again, wanting to drown.

[notcharming]

Her tenderness finds an answering one in him, their kiss soft but heated, a low moan of pleasure voiced into her mouth that seems less about the sex and more about this kiss. He doesn't understand fully what is happening, why this is as it is. This is not what he does. This is not how he has sex, when he decides to have it at all. She is different, immediate and breathstealing and he does not know why.

Her desperation draws out more of his own, her need more of his need. She is something he is not supposed to have and he wants her desperately, wants to claim every part of her for himself, so that no one else can touch her.

He knows that is not as it should be, but in this moment, he doesn't think he cares and, furthermore, he doesn't think she cares, either, and so he speeds a bit, thrusts turning slightly rougher when she clutches tighter at him in turn.

[unabatedly]

He wins a breathy gasp against his mouth, an answer to his own moan, and her hips move to meet his own. More and more, she craves the friction and the intensity of his desire just as surely as she knows her own has sparked in response. If she thinks this is wrong or strange, she doesn't show it; instead, she chases his pleasure while trying to stave off her own for just a little longer. If this moment is to experience, then it is one she wishes to only experience with him. She wants to know him and in what better way can she do so than to see him at what might be his most open?

The next wring of pleasure gets him a whimper, which she presses into the corner of his mouth as she loses focus over the kiss. Her fingers tighten just a moment in his hair and then release, realizing she might hurt him. But she clings just the same, holds onto him, and her next kiss is direct at his shoulder with a hint of teeth.

Maybe she's trying to mark him. Maybe she just needs the anchor. Whatever the case, her body presses to his as he thrusts, and she tightens, a certain sign that she no matter how she tries to hold the inevitable off, she is fighting a losing battle and enjoying every moment of it.

[notcharming]

The noise of pleasure he makes at the pull of her fingers in his hair is harsher, the one from her teeth richer, clear that the last thing she needs to worry about is hurting him. If anything, the little hurts make him twist in her arms a bit, redouble his efforts.

They are both seeking the same end and they are both doing it in the same way, a desire to both see this to it's conclusion and a desire to equally not have this end too soon, to savor what there is. Even so, they may be eternal but this moment is not, and they both do eventually start to build to the inevitable. At first, Ereuvir seems more concerned about chasing her pleasure, but as his own builds he turns more selfish, more hungry again, that same ravenous feel that he had had when his mouth had been on her.

He eventually grabs one of her wrists and pins it to the ground, finishes this with a bit more of the air it had started with, but it's only one he presses to the earth, and when he does finally come, it's to both of them moving in tandem with one another.

[unabatedly]

She breathes raggedly into his shoulder, loosening her grip on him as she tries to hold on that little bit longer. The tug of the tide, her pleasure and his, comes to a rolling wave that she might have better withstood until he presses her down and holds her wrist there against the ground. Her eyes go wide with renewed focus on him as he pursues his own pleasure ravenously. What else is she to do but follow? And follow she does, hand coming around his back to find some kind of purchase until the white-hot ricochet of orgasm rattles through her once again and leaves her shaking, grasping for an anchor.

Her hips quiver as she rides it out, keeps her body moving with his and pressed tightly, until she can't seem to stand it any longer. She drops back, breathless, fingers still resting against his side.

Once or twice, she closes her eyes, tries to gather herself. But that seems counterpoint to what she wants to do, which is to watch him, to stare up into his face unflinchingly. And perhaps, cheekily, once she catches her breath, he'll catch the glitter of triumph in her eye even before she reaches up to touch his face once more. Her thumb brushes the corner of his lower lip almost fondly.

[notcharming]

He ducks his head down, to the point where they're pressed more cheek to cheek, while he enjoys the moment. He doesn't exactly need to catch his breath, but even for gods there is a moment of recovery, of liminal space he wishes to revel in for a few minutes before moving on.

When he does move, it is just to ease back up on his arms, to be able to look down into her face. His expression is curved into the hint of a smile, just the barest suggestion on his face, missable, if she were not looking so closely. It's another moment where someone else might mistake him for expressionless, even after all of this, unreadable as the stories paint him, but she is learning, one moment at a time, that only someone who wasn't truly looking could think so.

He brings the wrist he had trapped a moment before up to his mouth, pressing a warm kiss against the inside of her wrist, but he says nothing, at least for the moment. He seems to not quite be ready to break the moment with speech.

[unabatedly]

The cool of his cheek is actually comforting, soothing even, and she lets the moment linger until he is ready to move. Neria's gaze sweeps over his face and remains there, looking on him as if she might capture his likeness in her memory for far longer than she might have this moment. It's the smile that captures her gaze just as surely as he has her wrist, and there's a puff of laughter when he kisses along the inside of it. Where he'd once warned her not to run and insisted on how dangerous he was, all she sees is beauty and warmth that he might insist isn't there.

It doesn't make him less dangerous. It does not strip him of teeth. But if he'd thought to continue to tell her that there is nothing to be found here, she knows he'd be lying. As silent as the grave, there is peace in that stillness, and something deeper to the dark glimmer of his eyes.

Neria rises up on her elbows once more to meet him partway, to kiss beside his mouth, and to wind her other arm around his shoulders to try to coax him down onto the cloak with her where it is warmer despite the cold snow on the ground beneath it.