Light and Shadows

Perfect: A Maw Walker Perspective

He's perfect. Every part of him. Each sharp line, each harsh angle: a diamond flawlessly cut. And it never fails to amaze the Maw Walker how he somehow cannot see it. That it's up to her to remind him he is as worthy of worship as any god.

"Renathal..."

He draws his own name from her with almost shameful ease as she watches him undo his shirt, his trousers. Slowly. He does so love to tease her.

The whipcord muscles in his arms and chest are impossibly arousing, and the way he stalks toward her, burning eyes never blinking ...

She has no idea how so simple a movement manages to shatter her every time, melt her body down into a willing, ready offering. But her lips and her legs part of their own accord. She shifts restlessly on the edge of the bed, waiting for him to reach her.

He looms over her, and it's strange. She's always been the tallest, the center point of every room. Craning her neck to meet someone's eyes should be mortifying. But he tilts her chin, nails stroking her skin, a match igniting a flame, and she's looking up at her Prince, and it's impressed upon her again just what that means.

Her hands find his chest, tracing awed lines down his skin, resting on the small trail of light hair leading her to his gorgeous cock. He's hard and ready for her.

For her.

Her lungs catch on her ribs as they struggle to remember their purpose, leaving her panting and dizzy, all higher level of thought interrupted as she caresses his perfect length.

She's seen beautiful things before, powerful things, but nothing has ever held her captive like his body. The urge to wrap her lips around him is instinctual, necessary, and always at war with her need to have him fill her where she aches.

He hides his groan behind his lips as her thumb strokes over his leaking head. His eyes drift briefly closed, and she smiles when he can't see.

She's obsessed with his face like this, and that's strange too. Never before has she wanted to see so much raw emotion from anyone. He masks, like she does, but it's so easy to break. She wonders if any soft touch would do it, or if it's a power only she possesses.

He grips her hips and yanks her forward until he finds her entrance, and she lets her hands and head fall back as he slides thickly inside. The fit is exquisite, just too big for easy comfort, and she's never craved discomfort so much in all her life.

"Perfect, Renathal, that's perfect."

She can't stop the words escaping and he can't suppress the growl low in his throat. He cups the back of her head, pulling it up so he can watch her. She doesn't understand what he wants to see, but she does her best to keep her eyes on him. If he wants something within her power to give, then he shall have it.

His lips quirk in that sharp-edged smile. Apparently, whatever it is he's looking for, he finds.

His rhythm increases. He shifts her hips, gripping harder for better leverage. He thrusts again. And again. And she can't keep her mouth closed or her face composed, or her eyes open anymore, and she lets herself be consumed by his absolute perfection.

His speed picks up again, and the angle changes, hitting something gorgeous inside her. Her hands fumble for purchase, gripping his arm, his shoulder, clinging to his strength as he fucks her. He holds nothing back, grants her no respite. His movements know no gentleness, but brim with exquisite care.

He's always attentive. He knows what she needs, knows just how much she can take. He loves her exactly the way she craves: hard, deep, unyielding. And she surrenders herself to his reign.

No one before has ever been able to handle her body as well as she can. Better even. She can trust her pleasure to him entirely, and lean back ... receive ... relax. It's almost a foreign concept. A language she cannot speak, but loves to hear.

His hands leave her hips to sneak round her waist and crush her body against him. She wraps her legs obediently around his hips. What he needs is closeness, she knows that by now. She presses herself to every inch of cold skin she can reach, her fingers revisiting the edges and angles of the body she's obsessed with.

There's no heft to him, no ounce of excess flesh. He's the bare minimum a body can be. She wonders, as she has before, whether he was ever more, whether the drought has lessened him. She can't imagine him differently. He couldn't possibly be better. Reality itself would collapse under the weight.

The vibration of his low groan tingles against her fingers, and now he hoists her leg to his shoulder, reaching that place that makes her want to weep. And he can't control his tongue anymore. The encouragements fall from his lips as fast and free as tears.

Yes, dearest, that's right, tell me what you need, tell me you're mine, say it again again again

When he's this close to release, the overwhelming sensations loosen his tongue. She wonders again if he's even aware he's speaking out loud at all. And she tries to obey, but she struggles. It's so hard to reply. The same pleasure that frees him to speak, to say everything he's thinking, keeps her from thinking in words at all.

All she can do is whimper and cry and finally say his name, like a plea, like a prayer, as his hand leaves her leg and his nails brush her clit, and there's white-hot stars behind her eyes.

"Renathal Renathal please!"

She calls for him as she climaxes, eyes on his even though it hurts because it's what he wants to see. And she'll do anything he says when he gets her like this. Makes her feel this perfect and rapturous and so so good.

He grips her hip is so tight there'll be bruises and she won't let anyone heal them because she wants to see his fingerprints on her skin. His own mouth parts, revealing wet fangs, and the way he snarls her name is so beautiful she might cry. His hips stutter, then slam one last, vital thrust, and he spasms within her and oh, how she loves to feel that.

She runs his long, fine hair between her fingers as his growls become a guttural purr. He likes to linger here, soaking in each stolen second of bliss. And she lets him. He deserves it. She holds him to her as long as she can.

He tilts his face into her throat and she can feel him whisper her name. She ghosts her lips wherever they can reach without untangling their sweat-slicked limbs: his ragged ear, his sharp cheekbone, his hooked nose. She waits for him to tilt his head up and her mouth finds his and ... she hesitates.

She wants to do it now. To say the words he wants to hear. His eyes burn with desperate request, but it's the one desire he won't demand. She wets her lips, but the words still won't come. She doesn't remember how to say them.

All she can do is kiss him, and hope he understands.