𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐒

[saltburntmods]

MISFIRES

a rambunctious duo in salt has stuck their nose where they shouldn't and now you can all reap the rewards! this is a MISFIRES meme. post a header for your character, and receive accidental texts from your local saltburntian guests. nudes, nasties, confessions of a certain persuasion? things you'd otherwise never write or send? they're all on the table. (meme threads aren't game canon, but they're not not game canon either, right)

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[temporicide]

[ Huh, she thinks, strangely calm for the exact span of the subsequent sentence. I've never physically felt my brain chemistry change before.

Their preceding exchange and the healthy application of sexualized pain have put her in a frame of mind for docility. Obedience has no fragility here: it is red and pink and violet like a bruise valentine, and it comes with discipline. The surge of arousal that just comes from the sound of his voice has a physical component in the gush and rush of tender-pink cunt, the tunnel of muscle twitching against the persistent ache of her clit and the conscious need for fulfillment. Sometimes when she's really turned on that happens, like an elevator drop through her pelvis. It feels good. It feels impossible.

So she doesn't look. She closes her eyes against the material of his tie, lash against fabric. Roza is in no state to play guessing games, but she knows this voice. Doesn't she? She's heard him. Or maybe she's thinking wishfully. The curve of her spine dips to keep herself in line, and there is a shiver down it when he sighs, as though all of her craves that sound chief among all: knowledge of his pleasure, satisfaction made whole through the instrument of her body. Roza doesn't know if she'll ever dance again, and much of her life is categorically a mess, but to give this stranger that gives her purpose, even if only for the time being.

Her head dips forward, blindly. She does want to be good, and hopes she is. Mind half-clouded from the kind of oncoming ego reduction that comes from tactical application of pain and need that can split her raw in two, she has no composure with which to prevent the sound that tears slow and sob-like from her throat at the removal of the first pin. It bites at the tip of her nipple. Unwilling to move without bidding, she settles for flexing her feet, toes curling.

This exacerbates with what comes net. She can feel her pulse in her clit, which is remarkably visceral. He pins her open, spread in ways she has actually never thought to do or have done, and now her hands, flex, too. She is unsuccessful in choking back a throaty gasp. Surging energy flows through her, river undammed. Roza knows at this angle it is impossible to touch him, and that she must not take liberties and try to touch him —

Him, actually, Him with the capital-H, her mystery. She assigns to Him this deference. ]

Nuh — [ She swallows mid-word, tries again, ] No, I can't. I can't wait. Please. I need —

[ Helplessly, her voice gone airy and faint: ] I don't know what I need. But you — you do. Don't you?