( let it not be said parisa is immune to tall, dark strangers — it might be a favorite vice of hers, when she's in the mood for a little trouble, which is often, because life is an endless series of days followed by nights followed by days. you may as well fuck the hot guy with sticky trap eyes and a tar-tainted mind while you can. beauty is fleeting, it won't always be as easy as falling on her knees and sticking out her tongue to get a sweet treat.
it's not that she isn't scared of him, a little. telepathy makes his thoughts obvious to her, safely guarded as greek statues in defense of the parthenon, and parisa isn't careless enough with herself to favor brutal, violent men. it's just this feeling in her. this need, unquenchable, undeniable, needy, needy, needy. it's not unpleasant to think of her as brittle as bird bones in his strong, rough grip. what it is? threatening, hot. hotter still that he doesn't act on his baser impulses, his body her bowstring, the cake in her mouth the arrow.
parisa looks up at him coyly, suggestively, a siren of a woman who knows how to get what she wants, when she wants it, using the means available to her. cloying sweet, the flat of her tongue laves against the open cut of his wound, tasting the buttercream of his sweet flesh, teasing the hole open with a few lusty prods. )
Does that get you off, baby?
( teeth sink in, biting into the sugary skin at his hipbone, the softest cake she's ever eaten. it almost melts on her tongue, all rich decadence, all taboo implication. she doesn't mind — not this or much of anything, considering she's on her knees in a likely public area, unbothered by her own reckless abandon. she moans, pleased by the taste of him, lifting up a hand to stroke his thigh wound, fingers digging in until she hits bone, or — candy cane, maybe. )
YELL
it's not that she isn't scared of him, a little. telepathy makes his thoughts obvious to her, safely guarded as greek statues in defense of the parthenon, and parisa isn't careless enough with herself to favor brutal, violent men. it's just this feeling in her. this need, unquenchable, undeniable, needy, needy, needy. it's not unpleasant to think of her as brittle as bird bones in his strong, rough grip. what it is? threatening, hot. hotter still that he doesn't act on his baser impulses, his body her bowstring, the cake in her mouth the arrow.
parisa looks up at him coyly, suggestively, a siren of a woman who knows how to get what she wants, when she wants it, using the means available to her. cloying sweet, the flat of her tongue laves against the open cut of his wound, tasting the buttercream of his sweet flesh, teasing the hole open with a few lusty prods. )
Does that get you off, baby?
( teeth sink in, biting into the sugary skin at his hipbone, the softest cake she's ever eaten. it almost melts on her tongue, all rich decadence, all taboo implication. she doesn't mind — not this or much of anything, considering she's on her knees in a likely public area, unbothered by her own reckless abandon. she moans, pleased by the taste of him, lifting up a hand to stroke his thigh wound, fingers digging in until she hits bone, or — candy cane, maybe. )
Where else should I put my mouth?